


Gravity

by tomiissherlocked



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Blow Jobs, Coping, Death, Drama, Fingerfucking, Friendship, M/M, Minor Character Death, Poor John, Post Reichenbach, Romance, Suicide, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-04-05
Updated: 2013-11-22
Packaged: 2017-11-03 02:56:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 47,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/376326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tomiissherlocked/pseuds/tomiissherlocked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has left John forever, as far has John knows. John attempts to cope with all of this. Rated M for future slash. May edit later. Post-Reichenbach, obviously.</p>
<p>"I need you, Sherlock. I thought you needed me. I need for you to come back. I want it, but I need it more. Please let this be another trick of yours. Let this be... a joke. Please let me believe that the Great Sherlock Holmes will come back to solve the case of the century. Please, do that thing you do, where you make the face and flip your collar up. Please.</p>
<p>Sincerely yours, <br/>Dr. John Hamish Watson</p>
<p>P.S. I kept the hat. I know you wore it; it smells like you."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, I wrote this immediately after Reichenbach. This is actually a pretty emotional fic for me. It's helped me indefinitely.

I DO NOT OWN SHERLOCK OR WRITE FOR IT. I DID THIS TO GET MY FEELS OUT AND CURSE THE NAME OF STEVEN MOFFAT. Please, read on.

Prologue  
Wow. I wish I knew how to collect my thoughts better. My mind is still very cloudy; I haven’t come to terms with you being gone. I’m not sure I ever will. I’m certain that you’ll make an appearance sometime later in my life, whether it be real or an illusion. I’d like to believe that you’ll return. But it’s not possible. My therapist informed me that writing everything down that I’ve wanted to say to you would help me to cope, but I’m not sure if it will. I’m afraid old feelings will come up.

First of all, I want to apologize. I’m... sorry. So sorry. So painfully, endlessly, eternally sorry. For how this all happened. I never thought you to be a fake. Ever. I’ve seen your work. I’ve seen how you deduce and observe and bring to light the most subtle things. I’ve seen it with my own eyes. You are genuine. You always have been and you always will be. You impressed me with your natural wit and intellectual prowess; you knew my life after knowing me for 2 minutes. You’re no fraud. And once again, I apologise, for our first meeting. You called me your friend. Your friend. And I easily took that one bit of entitlement from you. You called me a friend without feeling forced or urged; it was from your heart. And I snatched that away from you on more than one occasion. I’m glad that over the years we were able to call each other friends, but I regret making that first impression on you. I can’t even understand how difficult that must have been for you. And I apologise.

I’d also like to acknowledge the fact that you... grew on me, to say the least. Of course, I was annoyed by and even a little terrified of you when I first met you. Mrs. Hudson insisted that you were harmless but I was wary, no matter how much she attempted to make you seem less insane than you really were. As you noted, I kept my guard up, making sure you didn’t attempt to experiment on me when I slept (and might I say, I failed miserably). I can’t count the number of times I’ve woken up to you collecting samples from me. I grew to expect it from you, in fact. She was always so startled when she found specimens in the refrigerator. I found it a bit funny, if not utterly disgusting. But that was you, Sherlock. So involved in your work, never cracking or crumbling, retreating to your “Mind Palace” as you so deemed it when you needed to. I’ve never met anyone as astonishingly dedicated to their work as you. It’s so inspiring. I’ve never been so attached to something like that, for lack of better words. I always hated bringing my girlfriends around you. You were so rude an unbecoming to them, saying whatever you felt about them as soon as it popped into your head. You drove everyone away from me. I hated it. And at the same time, I’m so very grateful.

Another thing that I appreciate is your total faith in the things around you. You had faith in yourself, in people, in me. Although you were always faithful that people would fail you, you still knew what you meant. In the most dismal of situations, you knew that you could get out of anything. And even if you didn’t know, you did a damn good job of pretending. You trusted Lestrade, a man who, albeit was annoying at times, always pulled the strings to get you what you needed. And you trusted me, when I had trouble trusting myself. I can’t understand that level of continuous, faith in anything, let alone me. It’s a good feeling, knowing someone is willing to put their life in your hands over and over again. I trusted you, too. I trusted all of your antics. I’ll never stop trusting you. Moriarty is dead, and because of that I’m certain that you could be trusted from the beginning.

So now, I can’t help but wonder why. Why you... threw everything away. Why you would let months and years of hard work go to waste after a ‘scandal’ breaks out. You’re so much stronger than you think. Or maybe even what I think. You broke my heart, you really did. That phone call. That last phone call was the worst phone call of my life. The absolute worst. And I had to watch you fall. And I felt my soul shatter, because I knew a part of me would be gone forever. I’ve been alone on a level that I can’t even comprehend. Mrs. Hudson, God bless her, has done so much to help console me, but she’s in no place to do such a thing. I know I sound selfish, and I’m sorry. But my own emotions are the centre of attention right now. We were more than flatmates, more than friends. Heh, we weren’t quite lovers, as people believed us to be. I was so insecure about that without understanding why; I know we weren’t, but so what if we were? All we really had was each other and no one really mattered. So that’s why this hurts as much as it does. I need you, Sherlock. I thought you needed me. I need for you to come back. I want it, but I need it more. Please let this be another trick of yours. Let this be... a joke. Please let me believe that the Great Sherlock Holmes will come back to solve the case of the century. Please, do that thing you do, where you make the face and flip your collar up. Please.

Sincerely yours,   
Dr. John Hamish Watson

P.S. I kept the hat. I know you wore it; it smells like you.


	2. A Few Minor Adjustments

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this about 2 weeks after the previous chapter. I hope you like!

A Few Minor Adjustments

John’s knee shook, his hands sweaty and his eyes shifty. The cab he was in began to traverse the familiar area in which he once lived. Baker Street. The familiar smell of rain and cigarettes brought back a few memories John would have done better without. Everything remained untouched. The street was quiet, as usual. Everything was the same.

The cab stopped in front of the old flat. 221B, same as always. Not really. John graciously paid the cabby and walked across the street to his former abode. Baker Street was still calm and quiet, often to Sherlock’s disdain. Not that it mattered anymore. John jiggled his keys a bit and unlocked the door to his flat. He trotted up the steps and found Mrs. Hudson, straightening up a bit, for not evident reason. Sherlock had been gone for 2 weeks at that time, and his things were still left in their place. John knew he should have emptied his friend’s portion of the flat, but he simply couldn’t. No, it wasn’t possible. It wasn’t his; it was his friend’s. Plus what if Sherlock came back home and all of his things were missing? He’d throw a fit; all of his experiments, all of his research and his books. He would never have it.

Except that was never going to happen, John assured himself. Sherlock was gone forever. He saw it himself. He leapt from a 6-story building and hit the ground with the force of a high-impact car crash. The chances of his survival were very slim, and he died on impact anyway. At least, that’s what the nurses told him. Not that it mattered; he was a doctor. He could have figured it out himself. That didn’t make the fact any more believable.

John sighed as he turned the corner and walked into the kitchen, where Mrs. Hudson was dusting lethargically. She turned around and beamed when she saw her tenant. “Oh, John!” she cried, shuffling over to him and placing a kiss on his cheek. He grinned a bit and brought her into an fond embrace. “Hello, my dear boy. Hold on now, I’ll put some tea on the kettle for ya. Please, sit! I insist.”

John frowned, somewhat dreading how he had to answer. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Hudson but I’m afraid I won’t be here very long. Greg’s on his way now, actually. I’m going over to Scotland Yard for questioning, though I’m not at all excited.” Almost appalled by her sincerity, John does his best not to yell at her the second time she offers a cup of tea, and even biscuits. He persists that he’d rather not and thanks her for the trouble, but declines a second time. The elder woman sighed and left the room and made her way down the stairs.

Meanwhile, John looked around, really attempting to comprehend this new life without his flatmate and the world’s best (and only) consulting detective. The flat still smells of him, his musk hanging in the air like a spirit haunting the soldier. The papers and books he kept are still strewn about the room in nonsensical fashion, but Sherlock dared anyone to touch or rearrange them in any manner. They were exactly where he wanted them to be, where they could be easily accessed. His microscope and petri dishes were still in the kitchen, untouched. The human body parts reeked from the refrigerator, even with the door closed and John 15 feet away. Ah, it was home for him. But not quite. Home is where the heart is, and Sherlock, being John’s heart, is gone. 

John hears the faint whine of the brakes of DI Lestrade’s car as it pulls up to the curb in front of the flat. He arrived much earlier than John expected; he only said 15 minutes prior that he was almost home. He watched as the tanned detective made his way from the car and eventually to the door, where he heard him enter and trot up the stairs.

“John? You up there?” the inspector asked, his pace slowing significantly as he made his way to the top. He turned and saw John, staring off, his eyes glazed over and one tear rippling down his cheek. Lestrade purses his lips and inhales sharply, trying to bring the man down from his vulnerable state. “John?”

The doctor jumped and quickly wiped the tear from his face. He exhaled deeply and turned around. “Yeah, I’m coming,” he sighed, and followed him down the stairs and to the patrol car. Lestrade glided around the front of the car while John scooted his way to the passenger seat. The two of them strapped in their seatbelts and pulled off. 

The drive was a quiet one, and a very tense one at that. Lestrade noticed how John tugged at his jacket, how he scratched his ear and how he sighed. Fifteen times, to be exact. The silence was painful for the two of them and the inspector decided it may be best to end it. “So, uh, how are you then? How’re you holdin’ up?”

John hesitated to answer, his body beginning to tense and his fists clenching. He bites the inside of his mouth and says, “I’m fine. Just living day-to-day.” The car is silent again. Lestrade has never been good at consoling people. He’s only had to convey information at press conferences and interviews, only giving the most solid and grittiest facts to the public. But to speak one-on-one to a grieving man? The concept was almost foreign to him. Painfully and obviously foreign. He’s never lost someone so close to him, and though he can say that he’s grateful for it, it greatly hinders his ability to empathize, though he would like to.

“You know, John,” he began, “I lost a friend too. Sherlock was a very dear friend to me, As you and I both know, he can be a bit of a sod sometimes, but I am trying to deal with this. And I know you lot were pretty close. Best friends, I’d say.” He pauses to glance at John, who is staring intently at his hands. Lestrade continues, “But we have to learn that this is a part of life, you know? All the blokes I’ve seen in this field, it’s hard, but you learn to cope. And as a soldier, I know you’ve seen a lot of death in your face. I know it’s difficult, but, uh. It’s something we have to accept.”

“Yeah,” John breathes. “I know.”

The two of them finish the drive, stone faced. They enter Scotland Yard and take the lift up to Lestrade’ department, where Anderson, Donovan, and several other members of his team awaited. Anderson remained silent, not giving any particularly rude remarks on his own behalf while Donovan wore an uncharacteristically mournful expression. She stopped him on the way to Lestrade’s office and wantonly wrapped her arms around him. “I’m sorry, John. I really am.” Anderson rubbed the doctor’s good shoulder and patted him on the back.

“You’re sorry for me. Not him.” John frowned and walked forward before Sally called out to him.

“I’m sorry for the both of you, Watson.” The man paused and Lestrade waited for him. “I’m sorry that his name was tarnished and everything we all believed to be true wasn’t as it was. I’m sorry he decided to take his own life.” She sighed. “And I’m sorry you have to keep living through this.”

John marched on to the room with the detective inspector. He sat in the chair opposite his superior and glanced around. He still had the pictures of his wife and children, even though it was confirmed that Mrs. Lestrade was in fact cheating on him. Lestrade is a very forgiving man, John would give him that. Another man soon joined them, as a witness to the statements John would release. “So, uh, this won’t take too long. Just gonna ask you a few questions. That’s Patrick Smith by the way. He’s here to be a witness.” John nodded silently. “So, uh what were yours and Sherlock’s living conditions? What was the flat like?”

“The living conditions were moderate. He had his own space and I had mine, I slept on a different floor than him, so most of the time if he was messy or his experiments were noisy or smelly I’d go upstairs to my own room, or just leave for a bit.”

“Alright. Well, did he make any interesting phone calls or send any strange emails to anyone at all? You know, did he act suspiciously?”

“No, never. He would be at the flat for a few days and if a case came up he’d bring me with him every time. And he never calls people; he prefers to text.”

Lestrade groaned and pressed on. “Were there any indications that Sherlock may be involved with any criminals whatsoever?”

“No,” John jolted. “He didn’t hire anybody or arrange anything. He solved those cases on his own, with only mine and your help and his ability to deduce what he saw. He wasn’t corrupt.”

Lestrade frowned. “I wasn’t saying that-”

“But you’re implying it,” John interrupted. “Look, Sherlock was a genius in his own and many others’ rights. He didn’t hire any actors. He didn’t kidnap the Americans. He... no. He didn’t.”

“We can’t eliminate the possibility, John. I mean, we’ve both experienced firsthand how he is. He’s helped me with my cases countless times. But I still need to do this. I don’t want to doubt him, but I have to. I have to take precautions.”  
“I could never doubt him. He was honest. He was real. I believe in him.”

Patrick cleared his throat and adjusted his tie. “If I may,” he began, “I read in the paper in an article by one Kitty Riley that Sherlock hired an actor by the name of Richard Brook to play a person named Jim Moriarty. Surely you were in on it, no?”

John’s face turned a flush red as his brow lowered and his lip quivered. Lestrade attempted to intercept the rage that quickly billowed in the doctor’s gut. “Now, Mr. Smith, I told you not to say anythi-”

“Now you listen here, you clot,” John yelled, cutting off the detective, “Sherlock would never, I repeat, never hire anyone to do anything he could do himself. And he wouldn’t lie to me for his own entertainment. There is no Richard Brook. Jim Moriarty is the man who committed those serial bombing last year. He held me hostage and strapped a bomb to my chest. He broke into Tower of London, the prison, the bank. He’s been threatening to destroy Sherlock for the longest time. He’s crafty, and he’s dangerous, and he’s REAL. I defy you to tell me otherwise.” The angry words hung heavily in the air; John had spoken more and more loudly than he had in the past week. The obligation to protect his friend was strong.

“Well, then. Uh, John, that’s enough questions for today. I can take ya home if you like.”

“I’ll get a cab,” he retorted, adjusting his jacket as he stood up. “Good day to you.”

John rushed out and passed Anderson and Donovan, who stopped their gossiping to shoot him a look of sorrow and pity. He jutted past them frantically, his eyes watering as he went. He made it to the lift and boarded it, where he proceeded to sob in shame and frustration. Sherlock was a genius and Moriarty was real. That part of his existence was all he had for the last 2 years, and now this scandal was beginning to let it be known that his life and friendship had been a lie. Except he knew it wasn’t. In his heart of hearts, he knew that Sherlock was as brilliant as he let on. Only in death was his name being spit on, and that hurt the soldier. No respect for the dead or the living.

He reached the lower lobby and wiped his tears, the evidence of his little spat still present. He made his way outside and hailed a taxi where he took his ride home in silence. 

Once there, he reached the top of the steps, surprised to see the man who was greatly responsible for all of this. He sat in John’s armchair, sipped his tea and fiddled with his cane, not looking up or making eye contact. He could feel the angry, hurt eyes leering at him, and for his to meet with them would be a horrible thing.

“John. You’ve returned,” he said, staring down.

“What are you doing here?” he snapped back. “Not sending condolences, I’m sure.” His breath became short and worried, his hand began to spasm again. “What do you want? Come to offer me money for something? I’m not interested, Mycroft.”

The elder Holmes brother inhaled sharply and sighed. “John. I’m... very sorry.” John did not reply, leaving Mycroft to continue. “I wish... I wish I had known. I am very full of regret and... I wish I could reverse this. My actions led to my brother, your friend’s death and...” he trailed off, seeing John’s face become redder and more flushed. “... I apologize.”

“No,” John replied sternly.

“Excuse me?” The esteemed diplomat raised an eyebrow.

“No, Mycroft, you don’t get to be sorry. You don’t get to apologize to me for a damn thing. You caused this. You... you helped the one man who had an advantage on Sherlock make his move and your brother was the one who had to pay the price. I honor your decision in coming down here and offering your apology but you...” he pointed a threatening finger out at the man. “You. I cannot forgive you. I will not forgive you. You’ve earned my spite indefinitely. You’re so high up that you can’t see what your decisions do and how they affect people. And you’ve affected many lives with your decision to betray your brother.”

Mycroft pursed his lips and his breath became shallow; guilt, if it hadn’t before, was washing over him like a violent waterfall. He cleared his throat and stood to his feet. “Ahem. I understand.” He adjusted his tie and strode to the door. “If you need anything, please, don’t fail to let me know.”

“I just need for you to leave,” the doctor replied stiffly. The other man nodded and left the flat in stern and stoic silence. John was left alone again. So alone. More alone than he had ever felt before. Broken. Incomplete. Dead.

So John Hamish Watson’s new life began.

********************************************************************************************************

The train was quiet and nearly empty. The clock at the top paneling read “22:16.” It was late, of course no one was on. A man sat at the back of the cab, the collar on his coat turned up and covering his face. His hair was short and a gingerly blonde, no longer passing the length of his marvelous cheekbones, and his normally immaculate chin showed signs of stubble. His fingers were long and sturdy, rapping a familiar rhythm on his knee. Bach, Branderburg Concerto no. 3. His slender neck was covered by his maroon scarf and his eyes... his cerulean eyes were filled with sorrow and pain, desperation. His eyes have cried more than they ever have in the past few weeks. Not during one of his usual acts, but from the heart. He’s sobbed into his hands and behind closed doors and in bathrooms and once into the arms of one familiar pathologist after his life changed forever.

His entire body was tired. He had not slept more than 36 hours in those 2 weeks, and he had barely eaten more than a few biscuits and a nice bowl of soup served to him at said pathologist’s flat. He needed sustenance. He needed energy. He needed a case. He needed something, anything that would keep him from going stark-raving mad.

He needed John.


	3. Fall From Grace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is still having a tough time, and finds the most secure things around him falling apart. However, he meets a new person and things seem to look up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter actually took a few days to write. Plus, I don't know how to edit HTML, so this might change a bit later on or tomorrow. I hope you like it. c:

The night was quiet, still, almost eerily so as John made his way back to the flat. He had spent the evening with Lestrade and his disgruntled wife, soon to be ex-wife, as a large argument erupted towards the end of the evening, with a sudden phone call and a tipsy Detective Inspector losing his temper. Gregory’s wife Elaine decided to take a very intimate call from a certain gym teacher, much to the disdain of her husband, while John idly sat by as events unfolded. The soldier couldn’t recall seeing Lestrade quite that angry before, so it was a bit of a surprise to see him calling her “a lying whore,” at which point he quietly excused himself. He understood the situation for the most part, and quickly evaded any sort of confrontation.

The cab ride was virtually lifeless; the cabbie stoically glared at the street ahead of him, while John’s glazed eyes remained unfixed on the passing buildings, people, and lights. He was lost in thought; which thoughts, he wasn’t entirely sure. He found it quite difficult to focus on anything during the day. At the surgery his clients became frustrated when they were forced to repeat themselves more than twice. He was distracted when his phone buzzed in his pocket. The text was expected.

Hey, John. I’m terribly sorry about all that. Can I make it up to you? 21:35 18 September 2012

He appreciated Lestrade’s efforts in helping him cope, he truly did. But John found himself detaching from the man indefinitely. Not of his own volition, but he could notice that he was talking less and less to the man over the past 3 months. Lestrade was a man who would often reach out to those who were in need, and John was always the type to pull away from assistance. It pained him to see Lestrade continue to try and prod and talk because John knew he wouldn’t reply accordingly.

It’s fine. –JW|

He thought about it for a second, and discarded the message, and stuffed the expensive, yet old and scratched-up phone into his pocket. He sighed as he sank into the seat, and looked back out of the window. He saw everything. The spot where he and Sherlock tackled the strangler from last May, the place where he was first picked up by Mycroft’s goons, the spot where he first saved Sherlock from death. He saw it all. And yet, he saw nothing. The memories didn’t matter. They weren’t the real thing, he said to himself. Sherlock’s dead, remember? You can’t forget it. You can’t think about him as if he’s still here. He’s not.

John was soon dropped off and made his way up the seventeen steps to the flat, where everything was left as it had been since the day before Sherlock jumped. The idea terrified him. John never laid on Sherlock’s side of the couch, or ever sat on his chair. He left most of his experiments untouched, until Mrs. Hudson urged him to do so, or else she would be forced to make him find somewhere else to live. When he answered dryly, “I’m not doing any living,” she shrunk, and left him alone until the next day. He was considerate enough to actually move some of his things out, while the landlady could hear his soft sobs from the lower floor.

The weeks were extremely difficult for the grieving man. His therapist called him on several occasions urging him to stop by. He decided that therapy would be helpful, and knew how hard it would be, but realized that it would be for the best, and that he would begin to heal. Well, he was wrong. Therapy often consisted of 2 hours of John being asked to speak, and sitting in silence, or having fits of rage and frustration, and thus wasting his money. Mycroft was the last person John wanted to talk to, what with him being partly responsible. Mycroft texted him frequently, asking him how he was coping, or attempting to bribe him with substantial amounts of money, all for the sake of moving out or letting him spy on him. What put John off was his tendency to be as insensitive as humanly possible, without offering even the slightest hint of sentiment. John counted 34 texts from the diplomat since the ides of June, and felt a low growl form in his throat whenever he saw one.

I’m concerned, Dr. Watson. You should give me a call. MH 11:25 23 Jun 2012

Happy birthday. Please have a pleasant day. MH 9:14 7 Jul 2012

You haven’t left the flat in over a week. Someone is on the way with groceries. MH 15:41 19 Jul 2012

Lestrade has some new cases. Interested? 19:58 2 Aug 2012

Sherlock would hate to see you this way. 14:37 22 Aug 2012

Unending frustration. John sighed loudly, heavily, and stood to his feet. He wobbled up the stairs and kicked his shows off in his bedroom. The sound of his loafers thudding against the wall and falling to the wooden floor was deafening in the still silence that now consumed the flat. John’s room had gotten messier and less kept than before; the bed wasn’t made and clothes were sprawled out near the hamper and dangled off of the dresser. He hadn’t done laundry in God knows how long, and he didn’t really care. He stayed in a t-shirt and sweats most days and at on the couch staring at the telly, but not really watching or paying attention. This was his new life.

He went to the bathroom, where he stripped to nothing and took a scalding shower. He stepped in and the water rained over him, burning and peeling away the day’s sweat and dirty smell. He rubbed his bad shoulder and looked down at his body and realized he was considerably thinner since the summer began, and that he was several shades paler than he normally is, especially in the warmer months. His fingernails were long and his hair was messier and didn’t smell of vanilla, as his friend pointed out on one occasion, even after John had explained that it was the product he normally used on his hair, and he had been using it for a while before they had met. Instead his locks reeked of musk, like that of a man who didn’t bathe was often as he used to, and never left his flat. His legs were hairier and his feet were calloused and thin. He touched his face and felt the heavy bags under his eyes, the lines and wrinkles that were forming. He wasn’t as youthful and spry as he once was, but he certainly was aging faster than a normal man would.

He took some liquid soap and began to lather it onto his torso and neck, the suds bringing a nice feeling to his rough and coarse skin. It became smooth again, the way it was when he sat in that living room with the consulting detective, or when they were sprinting together in the dark of the night away from the police, or when he ran to his side when…

John gasped, pulling himself away from those thoughts. He was sick of living in his own mind for so long. He had visited some rather dark and morbid places in the time that Sherlock had left him. He closed his eyes and exhaled softly. Perhaps he needed a bit of relief from all this tension. He gulped and wrapped a single hand around his member, moaning at the almost unfamiliar sensation that he hadn’t experienced in almost a year. He slid his palm against the hardening shaft, bringing the half-limp organ to life. He thought of Sarah, and the times they had shared together, when they were in bed together and she performed on him. He remembered how much he loved feeling her tongue on his head, how skilled she was and how she made him squirm and writhe with pleasure. He rubbed faster, feeling a bit of pre-ejaculate forming at the tip. He groaned softly, his free hand attempting to clench the wet tile wall to his left. 

A new thought crept into his head, as new hands began to wrap around him, and slender fingers trailed his spine and neck. He panted, the intangible palms gliding over his cock in his own place. John shut his eyes harder, almost there. Almost, until he could have sworn he heard the familiar baritone of someone he once knew.

“John.”

The doctor looked up, panting and horrified and disgusted by himself and his own thoughts and how he was using them. He turned off the water and quickly dried off and threw his robe on carelessly, and nearly sprinted out of the bathroom. Unacceptable, he thought. What the fuck is wrong with me? He went into his own room, confused and terrified and sat at the edge of his bed. Upon sitting he noticed he was still sporting a half dead erection, and quickly reminded himself of how fucked up it was that he did that until the organ became flaccid.

The soldier glanced up at the table and noticed that his notebook was in the same spot it had been in for months; untouched and unattended-to since he first wrote in it. After mulling it over, he stood to his feet and grabbed the book and plopped back down, only to get up a short moment afterwards to look for some sort of writing utensil. He found one under the bed and scribbled on the paper to find the ink was red, and promptly tossed it away. Not red. Black, blue, green, orange, white, anything but red.  
He found a ballpoint with blue ink and began to write in the notepad.  
_________________________________________________________________________________________

Okay. Alright. So it’s been 3 months since you’ve... gone. Wow, it still is so difficult to say. Not so much that you’re dead, but that you’re gone. I never thought you would leave. Did I take advantage of you, Sherlock? Did I do anything? What didn’t I do? I know, there were times when you were upset, but should I have pressed on and asked you what the problem was? What could I have done to prevent this? I’m much too arrogant and faithful in you to believe that you would end your life over something as juvenile as a ruined reputation. I’m blaming myself, Sherlock. I feel guilty. 

And I think one of the worst things about this is that I can’t ask you how you’re doing. I can’t ask you where you are, or how the afterlife or whatever is. I don’t know if you’re in Heaven or Hell, or even if you go anywhere after you pass on. I know you’d tell me if I asked. But you can never reply to me. Goddammit, Sherlock, what happened? Why did this have to happen? I’m not living. I’m just going with the motions, day by day, not really planning ahead for anything. I don’t care anymore. I don’t feel anything. I’m lost, Sherlock.

And everyone has something to say, you know? Like Lestrade. He’s got his own problems. He has his own stress to deal with. I’m almost certain he and his wife are going to separate for good. He stayed with her for six months after the whole gym teacher deal. I don’t blame him. He’s been trying so hard to help me, Sherlock. He takes me out for drinks, he calls me a few times a week, checks up on me to see how I’m doing. I appreciate it. I don’t think anyone’s really ever done that for me. Not even Harry. She’s doing rather well. I know you loathe that woman but she’s tried to build a bridge back to me since your... departure. She’s gone to detox. She says she’s met someone. Funny how as soon as I start feeling like shit, she gets better. It’s all in the balance of nature, I suppose.

Speaking of family, I’m rather tired of hearing from your brother. Mycroft has been on a shitlist of mine for quite a bit now, and this has made me despise him indefinitely. I can’t forgive him. I won’t. I refuse to. I don’t understand how a man with his intelligence could do something so stupid. 

I chuckled; I remembered how many times I’ve said that about you.

I misunderstood you on a level I didn’t comprehend. I knew you as a friend and how you are as a human being but there was this part of you that I couldn’t wrap my head around; the giant contradiction that you proved yourself to be. A highly functioning sociopath who almost immediately accepted me as a friend. Was I really that special to you? Special enough to risk your life or lie or steal a bloody ashtray? What made you tick?

Which brings me back to the whole guilt thing. It seemed for a second that I doubted you. And for a brief, stupid moment, I did. The idea was planted in my head, Sherlock. I desperately wanted to get rid of it. But still I had this belief against belief that you were genuine. And I still do. I’m sorry that you didn’t believe it.

JHW 18 September  
_________________________________________________________________________________________

John capped the pen and placed it into the spiral of the notebook. He had every intention of using it again. It hurt, but it helped. Storm clouds had rolled into the city in the meantime, and the lowly bellowing thunder marched in, followed by wisps of rain and wind. It was a good night for a storm. 

John removed his robe, still bare underneath, and settled under his comforter. He sighed and reached for the light on the nightstand and turned it off.

“Goodnight, Sherlock.” he whispered, before falling into a deep slumber.  
_________________________________________________________________________________________

Addlestone was normally a quiet town, with few people and few problems. After the entire kidnapping scandal that erupted months before, schools and public places had become greatly guarded. Strict curfews were put into place and children under 18 out after dark were escorted home with a warning, and then placed in detention centers after a second offense. The community reacted harshly, but for a good cause. However, every town has its deep and dark crevices, places where only the lowest of the low can gather and fester. Naturally, the familiar consulting detective was drawn to it.

Sherlock crept near a warehouse he recalled visiting a few months ago, one that once held poisoned and petrified children, now was a sort of headquarters for several gangsters and criminals. If nothing at all, it was more of a place of refuge. The sociopath was surprised that there wasn’t a bust at all. He then noticed the cars roughly 200 feet away and realized that there was a sting operation in place and that it had probably been in the works for a few weeks. He made his way into the doors and slid past the addicts sprawled out across the floor and the gamblers and murderers and anyone else who may have committed a felony. Yes, this was the place. The person he was searching for was here.

He made his way up a flight of stairs in the night, the creaking and cracking of the steps giving him an unsettling feeling. He found a door, with a large man blocking the entrance. He smelled like a man who worked in an office; drenched with cheap cologne and a poorly tailored suit. He didn’t make very much in his position, just barely enough to sustain whomever he lived with. He had a five o’clock shadow and a bit mustard smeared on his lip, probably from a meal he ate at the burger joint a few blocks away. The detective saw right through him, but knew that decuding and insulting the bodyguard wouldn’t do much to advance his mission. “Can I help you?” the man asked, his halitosis nearly knocking the strawberry blond over.

“The angel has fallen,” he replied in an almost silent, incomprehensible tone.

Only a bit bemused, the man stepped over and opened the door for the young man. The room was dank and unpleasant, to say the least. There sat a man with 7 bags of cocaine at a large desk, scribbling in a pad and calculating the weight of each sack. He heard the door click shut but didn’t lift his head, too engrossed in his task at hand. “Yes, how may I service you today?” he asked, still writing quickly and sharply. Teal eyes were fixed on him, calculating and measuring where and when to strike, serif fonts floating around his field of vision. After a few seconds of silence, he lifted his head and nearly yelped.

“I said what do you want-”

He hushed, hearing the click of a revolver as the chamber rotated. He saw the gloved hand up to the thin, yet lean arm and saw a man he never thought he’d see again.

“Lawrence Cartier,”

The dealer shrank, his eyes narrowing. “You’re supposed to be dead.”

“Well, then. The Ghost of Sherlock Holmes sends his regards.”

BANG.

The guard outside jumped, his legs coming to life as he hurriedly scurried into the room, only to find a relieving sight: his boss, head, a single gunshot wound to the forehead, his tie and collar already painted red with spots of blood. He was hunched over in his own chair, his things left alone. The window behind him was swung open, the brisk September air flowing inside the room. A man was sprinting away, panting and shaking. This was only the third man he had ever killed. The feeling was still nauseating, but he quickly fought it and jolted off into the night. His quest was far from over, but he felt he was making some headway.  
It’s all worth it, he thought. Everything will be back to normal soon.  
_________________________________________________________________________________________

“Crime Lord and Mass Murderer Lawrence Cartier Found Dead.”  
John skimmed through the morning paper, a task he hadn’t done in a long bit. The London papers included much of the details, the warehouse, the criminals, the conditions of the environment. John buzzed past it and found another article that only made his hiss with anger.

“Vigilante Vandals Strike Again.”

Ever since Sherlock’s death, several posters and bulletins were posted throughout London, with proclamations of “I Believe in Sherlock Holmes” and “Moriarty was Real” and the like. It stirred an indignation in the man that he couldn’t quite understand. He just wanted all of this to go away. He appreciated the sentiment, but he was bothered by the emails he often received from supporters or even bashers, with messages ranging from “Keep going, John. We love and support you and Sherlock,” to “I’m glad your friend is dead. He was a fraud and didn’t deserve to live.” Eventually he jut stopped checking them, and decided that if he wanted to heal, that he would have to live his life for himself, and stop seeking approval from people who don’t even understand the situation. 

John decided to leave the house. It pained him to seek the outside world on his own, but knew that he had to. He got dressed and said his hellos to Mrs. Hudson and made his way out. The day was absolutely beautiful, uncharacteristically so for late September. It was bright, and warm, and cheerful. It was perfect.

He practically floated down the street to Angelo’s, where the title owner of the restaurant wrapped his arms around the soldier proudly and patted him heartily on the back. He ushered him over to the booth where Sherlock and he first discussed their relationship, and John politely asked for another spot. He was only starting, but that would be a big step. Angelo obliged, and showed him to a table on the literal opposite end of the restaurant. John appreciated the effort very much. He asked for a glass of milk and a muffin, and stated that he was unusually hungry. Angelo replied that it wasn’t a problem, and quickly gave him his order.

After about 20 minutes of eating, John noticed a woman at the bar across the way, enjoying a light cup of coffee. Her hair was pulled into a bun, and her warmly colored attire attracted the man. She wasn’t spectacular or particularly stunning, but she was quite beautiful. Her eyes tired, yet loving as she conversed with the man at the counter about the quality of the cup that she was using. John deduced that she enjoyed simpler things in life, and enjoyed trivial parts that Sherlock may have overlooked. The notion was quite refreshing for him. He swallowed his fear and strolled up to the woman and took a seat next to her. Wow, she even smelled wonderfully. The jasmine scent that permeated around her made John blush. 

She glanced up and smiled, and looked back at the shelved wine bottles. “Hello,” she mewled, her deep but soft voice lightening the air.

“H-hi,” he replied, struggling to keep eye contact. He looked away, almost defeated by his fear of socialization. The air was heavy for a minute, and the woman broke the silence.

“My brother reads your blog. Well, read. I mean you haven’t updated in a while. He’s a big fan. But he’s respectful.”

John raised an eyebrow. He was unsure of her words.

“I’m sorry. I mean, for all of this. For all the people that won’t let this rest. Who go out of their way to spray yellow spray paint everywhere. The people that won’t leave it alone.”

John frowned. “Yeah, well, they probably will stop caring after a while. Most people do.”

“Well, I care.” She reached into her purse and took out a strip of spearmint gum. After opening the wrapper she gingerly chewed on the gooey stuff, and chuckled. “I’m so sorry, I chew gum when I’m nervous. True story.” 

John laughed. “That’s such a wonderful quirk. A fatal tell anywhere else, but I think it’s cute.”

“Do you really? Ha. Well, I’d like to say the same about you.”

John blushed wildly and blinked as if a fan was blowing directly into his face. He almost stumbled over his words, but quickly formed his next sentence with ease.

“I’m sorry. I’m John Watson,” he cooed, a warm grin carving its way onto his face.

The woman beamed and sighed softly. She purred in reply, “Mary. Mary Morstan.”


	4. A New Commitment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has never been much of an impulsive person. He figures that ought to change soon.

The next few months were difficult, but taken in stride. John and Mary were living together; Mary decided to move from her own home downtown into 221 B Baker Street. Although she was somewhat surprised at the state of John’s living quarters, she couldn’t blame him, and adjusted accordingly. Mrs. Hudson welcomed her with open arms, thanking her profusely for helping John cope and being there for him. Mary insisted that she wasn’t so great and that she’s just a woman who happened to fall in love with another man.

John and Mary were joined at the hip, inseparable, and absolutely gaga for each other. The doctor’s recovery was going along much faster than anyone had ever imagined. John began to laugh again, not in social situations where he was forced to put up a facade of happiness, but completely on his own. He was smiling, and sighing with content, and giggling and sometimes howling with laughter with his new lover. Mary had brought the sun out again in this young man. He was bright and vivid once again, and talkative. He and Lestrade had begun to catch up and a great deal of the time, the conversation always steered back to Mary and her beautiful voice and her cooking and her intelligence and the way she curls her tongue when she’s nervous and how she plays with her hair when she’s concentrating and how she always knows to put the handle on the left side of John whenever they have tea. Lestrade was genuinely happy for the man, despite the fact that his own marriage with Elaine had fallen apart indefinitely, since she had decided to move in with the gym teacher the previous month. What a wonderful Thanksgiving that was.

Mary had been John’s longest relationship, for lack of a better word, besides Sherlock. He had never been with a girl for more than a few weeks, and Mary and John had been together for about three months, and were about to spend Christmas with each other; his first Christmas without Sherlock. His friends and immediate family grew deeply concerned for his well-being, if he was able to handle this, if he would become depressed again and slip back into the dark abyss that Sherlock left him in. They would have to wait and see.

The couple spent the night together, Christmas Eve in each other’s arms. The street had been pelted with snow and the white shimmer of the flakes brightened the nigh brilliantly. They made love together through most of the night, never leaving each other’s arms. He loved her, and she loved him. They were beautiful.

The next morning was a peaceful and enjoyable one. The two of them woke up to the tree scattered with a few gifts underneath of it. A lot of them were for the guests that were soon to arrive. A large stuffed turkey was in the oven, and its intoxicating aroma reminded John of just how much he loved that woman. Tinsel and stocking adorned the walls and lit fireplace. The flat had a pleasant air about it; it was a lovely Christmas morning. Even if the considerable absence was felt, it was never mentioned. 

Several hours passed and guest began to arrive; Mrs. Hudson simply came upstairs with cake and cookies. She was the baking type. Didn’t enjoy in particularly hot environments for a long period of time. She was older, after all. Lestrade arrived with potatoes which smelled heavenly. He wasn’t much of a cook, but after being a divorcee he learned to stand o his own two feet in the realm of everyday tasks, and had learned to cook a few specialty dishes. He did rather well, if he did say so himself. Mycroft, a rather unexpected guest, was uncharacteristically kind and thoughtful towards John, who had phoned him the month before asking him to join them. He knew he would tread on unsteady ground, and opted not to mention Sherlock or Moriarty or his work in any way for the entire evening. He brought a few boxes with him, but had one of his men carry them upstairs. Molly dressed much more conservatively than she did the previous year, with a cardigan over a modest dress. She smiled warmly upon her arrival, pain in her eyes. She did her best to conceal her grief. She managed rather well. Harry was invited, but already had her own plans with Stephanie, her new girlfriend, and her family. John understood and wished her a Happy Christmas anyway.

The six of them sat down to an extravagant dinner, prepared for the most part by Mary herself. John helped set the table and the guests sat cozily at the small table, the warmth of the room felt on more than one level. John warmly smiled at Mary and the rest of the table and said brightly, “Let’s eat.”

After an hour or so of light conversation and eating the activity wound down and the group congregated to the living room, where they drank tea and coffee and delicious hot chocolate made by the ever-impressive Mary Morstan. The exchange of gifts was brief, filled with over-exaggerated reactions and questionable facial expressions. Lestrade was particularly pleased with a new leather jacket he received from John and even hugged the man. Molly received a snow globe and Mycroft got a gift card to a local restaurant, to which he scowled, but the entire room could tell he was pleased. Mrs. Hudson got a very insightful book on cooking and what it does for the soul. She very much appreciated it.

Mary brought John off to the side to give her gift, which was small and delicate, and very light in her hands. “Here, John,” she hummed. “Happy Christmas.” 

He opened the gift and found half of a gold necklace, probably very expensive, with precise chains and and a beautifully crafted heart. Cliche, Sherlock would call it. But he was touched. He was touched, indeed. It was a lovely gift from a lovely woman. “Mary... this is beautiful,” he remarked, almost breathless. He wrapped an arm around her and kissed her cheek, the love between them painfully evident. John sighed as he presented his own gift, a small box he had in his pocket. Lestrade glanced over and looked shocked; John wouldn’t.

John and Mary sat on the couch as the rest of the guests watched the events unfold. “Mary,” he began, “our time together has been wonderful and I love everything about you, your hair, your eyes, your smile, your voice, your mind, everything.” Mary beamed, the excitement and confusion plastered on the face of her and almost everyone else in the room. “So, I would be so honored if you spent the rest of your life with me.” You could cut the tension with a knife. This was really happening. John shifted himself so that he was down on one knee, and took out the little black box he was keeping in his pocket. It couldn’t be real.  
“Mary Morstan,” he said, opening the box to reveal an immaculate white gold ring with intricate carving on the side, “will you marry me?”

Silence. Utter silence from the entire room. Mycroft slowly lowered his teacup from his face, trying his hardest not to raise his eyebrows or move his lips, or flare his nose, or ANYTHING. Lestrade and Molly subconsciously dipped their heads into their coffee, while Mrs. Hudson was beaming like a light.Mary smiled warmly, and exhaled.

“Yes, John.” She smiled harder than she every had, and closed her eyes. “Yes, I will marry you.”

Lestrade thankfully reacted quickly enough to begin clapping for the two of them, and the rest of the guests proceeded to join him. Several forces smiles and congratulations followed as the newly engaged couple kissed and smiled to each other.

The evening finally wound down and the guests left at around the same time. Mycroft was last to leave and offered his well-wishes and even offered to pay for the wedding. John and Mary politely declined, and Mycroft urged them to accept his offer. Perhaps it was guilt or obligation, but Mycroft insisted.

Meanwhile, Molly had caught a taxi and made it back to her quiet flat alone. She was particularly exhausted on this evening. Molly loved Christmas, she did, but it pained her to know the day after she would be elbow-deep in corpses and drowning in paperwork. It was a hassle, but she managed to do it for the past 6 years. She climbed up the steps and opened the door slowly, exhaustedly, and screamed at the top of her lungs when she saw a man lurking in her living room.

“Who are you? GET OUT!” she screeched, reaching into her purse and attempting to find what appeared to be mace.

“Molly, lower your voice, it’s very late,” the man replied in the familiar baritone that had not been heard in London for 6 months. He walked forward, and the light of the street lanterns exposed his tired face. It was him.

“Sherlock?” Molly returned, heart still pumping viciously. “It... it’s you. What are you doing here? Why are you in my house!?” She was quickly changing from frightened to livid and red with fury.

Sherlock pursed his lips tightly and spoke. “Lock picking is a very remedial skill, Molly; any moron could break into this flat.”

Molly dropped her bag, or rather, slammed it on the ground in a fit of rage. “NO, Sherlock,” she began, attempting to keep her voice fro raising any higher than it had. “Why are you back in London? Why are you HERE?”

Sherlock sat on the couch and lowered his head, as he ought to. He had done a wonderful job of pulling the wool over everyone’s eyes for half a year. It was only natural that his only confidant was upset at this sudden return. “I wanted to see how everyone was doing.” The two of them fell silent, the blank air craving an answer from one of the two. It was painful. It was long. It was horrid. “How’s John?”

“He’s engaged,” she replied, this new information as much a shock to her as it was to the man sitting near her. “He’s smiling again. He’s happy, for the most part. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t miss you.” Sherlock’s eyes were full of ambivalent pain. John was happy. But not with Sherlock. But he was happy.

“He’s just like you,” she continued. “He looks sad when she isn’t looking. She’s a nice woman. Mary, her name is. She’s wonderful. She’s calm. She’s a good cook. And she loves him.”

Sherlock’s eyes became watery, but he quickly wiped the few tears that began to form before the fell from his eyelids. “I’m glad. That he’s happy.” He didn’t look at the woman; he didn’t have to. She knew how disappointed he was. 

“Sherlock, I can’t keep this up. I can’t keep this secret for much longer. It’s... killing me. I want to let John know that you’re okay... that you’re alive and well. Sherlock, please, when will this be over? When?” Molly’s voice broke, her sobs beginning to sound through the apartment. “I hate this, Sherlock. I can’t keep lying like this. Please, come back. As long as John is kept in the dark, you’re still dead. Do you know that?” She lifted a hand to her face and wept heavily as Sherlock stared into the wall, not moving an inch.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. He stood, his lanky legs wobbling with a newfound weakness. He walked past her through the door and trotted down a few steps when Molly called out to him.

“Where are you going?”

“I shouldn’t stay here. I’ve been too selfish.”

“Nonsense,” she replied. “You’re staying here for the night. You have too much to finish.” She crossed her arms and gestured to the inside, and Sherlock hopped back up the steps and back into the living room. She made tea.

______________________________________________________________________________

 

The new year rolled along seamlessly; John and Mary enjoyed the holidays with each other. As the week progressed, Mary noticed that John’s mood worsened as each day went by. His patience left him, and his frustration became more evident.

That Thursday, the 5th, John and Mary argued. Mary was right in assuming that John was hiding something from her, and that there was something upsetting him. He denied it, but Mary’s intuition was something dangerous, when accounted for its accuracy.

“What’s wrong? John, please tell me.”

“Nothing,” he retorted coldly.

“John, why can’t you trust me?”

“Please, don’t make this personal, Mary, it really isn’t about you.”

“Then what is it about?” her patience had just about run out, since this had been in the air for a few days.

“It’s about Sherlock, alright?” he groaned, finally getting this off his chest. “Tomorrow’s... his birthday. He would have been 33.”

Mary glanced away, her expression fading. Sherlock was John’s first true friend, she supposed. He had every right to be upset. He had every right to not expect her to understand, because she didn’t.

“I’m sorry.” She stood and left the room, not looking back. John felt alone, again. 

______________________________________________________________________________

John awoke the next morning an hour before he usually did, the sun only barely peering over the horizon and bringing light to the land. The doctor crept out of bed and was sure not to disturb his dozing fiancee, her hair all jumbled and tangled from the previous night. He used the bathroom and went into the bedroom downstairs. Sherlock’s bedroom. It still smelled like him, his sweet yet musky aroma still hanging in the air. He missed that scent, and the person who owned it. He wanted just once to hold Sherlock, to hug him, speak to him, or even to kiss him... John sobbed into his hands and sunk to the floor, doubling over. It hurt, not as much as it did all those months ago, but it still hurt. It was an unfathomable pain, that the man ended his own life so early. John still blamed himself. Just that hint out doubt is what killed him. John hated himself. He craved Sherlock once again.

After an hour or so John went into the kitchen and made a small breakfast for himself and Mary, who would be up in a few minutes. He got dressed and scribbled a note on a sheet of paper and left the flat, wearing that same beige jumper he loved. 

He stopped at the grocery and picked up some flowers. Carnations, white. John loved Sherlock with a pure and beautiful love, the love of a friend, the love of a soulmate. He got a dozen and had them wrapped delicately for his friend, and caught a cab to the cemetery. It was an especially cold January day, on this Friday the 6th. Sherlock’s 33rd birthday. John had to let the thought of Sherlock never returning set back into his mind. He was still trying to cope, but the little things always reminded him that his friend was gone forever. How much it still hurt to smile for Mary when he was grieving. 

He was at the tombstone, the blank colorless fixture only engraved with “Sherlock Holmes” and nothing else. No dates or special words. Perhaps it was by his own request. Perhaps no one bothered. He stood before it, swaying back and forth, and looking for the words to say.

“Um. Hey, … Sherlock. Um. It’s strange... talking to you like this. You know? We’re not face to face or in the same room or running away from someone. It’s strange. Um. I miss you. I miss you dearly. I miss you more than the men on my platoon. And I thought I’d never get over them. And then I met you, and I’m still not over you. I almost wish we had never met. I really do. I wouldn’t be... feeling this. I’d be... well, I’d be dead by now. I would have killed myself years ago. You know. I was planning to. Well, not really, but, I was expecting it. I thought about it. I don’t know.” John’s voice began to break, but he kept speaking. He knew he needed to get this out of his system. “Can you just... give me a sign? A sign that you’re happy where you are? You know, that you’re... okay? I need to know, Sherlock-” a sob escaped his throat. “Please tell me you’re alright? And Sherlock. I’m... I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. For doubting you. For not being there. That’s probably what killed you. I mean,” he inhaled and coughed, tears leaving his eyes, “it didn’t matter that Lestrade or Sally or Anderson or all of London doubted you, right? It was me. ME. And... I’m so sorry, Sherlock.” John wiped his eyes, sniffling and shuddering. “But I’m starting to get happy again. I’m beginning to... live again. I met someone. Mary. Mary Morstan. She’s lovely, Sherlock. She’s beautiful. You’d like her, you really would. She’s clever. And she’s patient. And she treats me so well, Sherlock.” His head dropped, his voice weak.

“We’re engaged, Sherlock. I asked her to marry her and she said yes. I know, I know, it’s so sudden, but... I want this. I love her. I’m sure, Sherlock. I’m sure of this. Mycroft offered to pay for the wedding. I’ve forgiven him. It took a while but, you know. I still need him. He misses you, too. He does. So does Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson, and Molly. Maybe even Donovan and Anderson. You were pretty helpful. We miss you. And, um. I know you’re not coming back. And I’m okay. Really, I am. Well, almost. I’m getting there. I still miss you. I honestly wanted to see... where we could have gone. But, you know, it’s okay. Because life changes. And things happen. And I have to play the cards I’m dealt. And that’s fair. I can’t just give up. I’ve wanted to. I might even start a few new cases with Lestrade. As soon as next week, even.” John sighed and sniffed hard, his crying over.

“But uh, I need to go now. But I’ll keep coming back, okay? Happy birthday, Sherlock. I... love you. I love you so much.”

John kissed his hand, and patted the stone. He knelt and left the carnations at the grave and sighed a final one of relief. He sighed and turned around to see his fiancee standing behind him, tears streaming down her face. John becomes undone, walking into an embrace from her and weeping into her shoulder, her small arms hugging him tightly, almost in an attempt to merge the two of them together. His breathing pitched and he sniffled hard, his cheeks and nose red and his eyes swollen. Mary broke the hug and kissed his cheek,, wiping his wet face and smiling warmly. 

“He loves you, too, John. I know he does.” She kissed him again and held his hand as she led him out of the cemetery, a cab waiting nearby. She reminded him once again how much he loved her.

They got in and the cab pulled off, headed to Angelo’s for brunch.

______________________________________________________________________________

The sun was setting, the light from it dissipating as it crept away from the surface. The reds and oranges and pinks and violets were fascinating and the stars were beginning to show themselves. Sherlock only wished now that he knew more about astronomy so that he could name the constellations to John once he came back. Only without his doctor did he appreciate certain things. That upset him; the separation taking its toll on him. He truly had no one. His trek would last longer than he intended, since one of the leads to Moriarty’s henchman had been killed in a rather violent heist. Five men had perished at Sherlock’s hands, and it drove him insane. Sure, he was killing criminals, but that didn’t make them any less human.

John taught Sherlock more than he intended to learn.

Sherlock found himself at the graveyard where John stood that morning. His brow was slanted, his fatigued and upset eyes fixed on the flowers that laid on the hard winter ground. Sherlock picked them up and smelled them, the sweet smell warming his cold heart. He missed John dearly. And to know that John loved him was so relieving that he let out a small cry, a smile coming from his pink lips. “I love you too, John,” he hummed. “I’ll be back. I promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know, it seems really out of character for John. A lot of this will be resolved in later chapters, I promise. I made the decision to write it this way because, well, I thought it would be important for the relationship between John and his peers. It'll make more sense later. Let me know what you think.


	5. Let It Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things go downhill for everyone.

The first time it happened, John was eating dinner with Mary at Angelo’s. He had paid for his meal for the first time in almost 3 years, much to Angelo’s displeasure. John was eating spaghetti, his favorite dish at the restaurant, while Mary enjoyed some chicken picatta, the aroma around them light, yet delicious. They had been together for 7 months and were enjoying themselves completely, the company of one making the other joyful and cheery. She was speaking about her job at a local school when John’s normally healthy pallor was drained to a white, almost ghost-like shade. He looked her up and down, not believing what he was witnessing. Mary drifted off mid-sentence, her eyes inquiring about the problem.

“Mary, your nose. And your ear,” he whispered shakily. “You’re bleeding.”

Mary touched her face and was shocked to discover that a substantial amount of blood was pouring from her nostrils, and felt the red goo sticking to her hair and cheek. It flowed freely, and she became nauseous. “John? What’s... going on?” Her vision blurred and her neck went slack, her head drooping over. 

“Mary!” he exclaimed, terror in his eyes. He grabbed her arm and pressed his fingers on her wrist to take her pulse, while the horrified yells of bystanders were heard from a few feet away. Her pulse had elevated to dangerous levels, and John cradled her in his arms. “Call an ambulance!” he shouted frantically, her blood staining his jacket. He tried his best to keep calm; he was a doctor after all. He had seen worse. He had seen dismembered soldiers, mutilated faces and brutal injuries, some that shouldn’t be seen by anyone sane. But this was different. It was just a nosebleed. Not a big deal. He reassured himself over and over that it was minor, that Mary would be fine.

It happened again several months later. John and Mary were told that it was a minor incident and that she probably was overheated. Mary was at work with her 5th years when a student remarked that she had a nosebleed. She dismissed it as something minor until she realized the bleeding wouldn’t stop, and that she was becoming faint like she did previously. The children rushed around her and a fellow teacher came to the rescue and called an ambulance. She was rushed to the hospital a second time, only on this occasion she had her blood tested. She was met with John only 30 minutes after the incident, who had been a blubbering mess by the time they were together. John knew what was coming. It was something he had considered the first time it happened but locked it away to the back of his mind. Now, it was becoming a cruel and unfortunate reality.

“Leukemia,” said the practitioner coldly. “Chronic. Because of the production of white blood cells your blood failed to clot, and therefore is what caused the nosebleeds.”

John nodded morbidly while Mary gazed tearfully at the doctor, the fear in her face evident. John clenched his fist while at the same time holding Mary’s hand, his tender palm rubbing her fingers. She was shaking, beginning to double over with sobs. They were quiet, but audible. She was broken, her life as she knew it slowly counting down.   
“We’ll run a few more tests on the samples we have, but they’ll need some time.” He directed his view to John and spoke. “Are you the husband?” he asked calmly.

John jolted. “Well, I’m her fiancee,” he replied anxiously. He squeezed her hand a bit harder, her sobs slowly waning.

The doctor nodded and sighed. “Could you come with me to discuss a few things?”

John sprung up and kissed Mary on the cheek before following the oncologist outside, his hands shaking and his breath hitching. This couldn’t be happening to him, he thought. He couldn’t go through this again. This was something he rejected, a reality he did not want to experience again. He knew Mary was alone, that the chances of finding a bone marrow match were slimmer than they would have been, that she might actually die a slow and arduous death, which is what pained him even more. He lost Sherlock in the most abrupt manner possible, but he would see Mary slowly drift away from him, shaking with agony along the way. He tried to remain hopeful, he did. Why did he have to be a doctor, he thought. Why did he have to know more than most people? Why did his general knowledge take away his hope?

“Do you know of anyone that she can contact? A relative, a sister, brother, parent, aunt, uncle?” the doctor asked, disconcerted.

“No, she doesn’t... her father was her last living relative and he passed away a short time ago. She has no one. I’ll gladly get tested, see if my marrow can be used on her. Please, let me do this,” he begged.

The oncologist rubbed his temples and sighed heavily. “There’s a discrepancy we have to keep in mind, since you’re not her husband or a relative, you can’t make any decisions for her. You need to marry her or get her consent, whichever one is more feasible. if she slips into a coma-” John gulped hard at his words. “-and doesn’t wake up, you wouldn’t have any say in whether she lives or dies. You understand, being a doctor yourself.”

John exhaled and nodded in agreement, his resolve to keep calm slowly crumbling. “Yeah, I understand.”

A few moments of silence, save for the beeping of heart monitors and the squeaking of wheelchairs rolling along the linoleum floors. The doctor rubbed the back of his head and huffed out, a bit louder than he planned to. John hung his head, his mind racing, until the oncologist placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. “I understand how hard it is to be on the other side of the helping hand,” he remarked. “You have someone depend on you for so long, and finally when it’s your turn to trust someone else, you don’t know how to cope.”

John looked up at the man, eyes tired, exhausted, confused, angry. He described him in so many different ways, he hated to admit it. He had become dependent on the people around him, a huge change for John since his first encounter with Sherlock. He realized just how much he didn’t like it, and just how impossible it was for him to go back to that. His idea of normality had altered since making and losing his best friend, and the lack of consistency was too much for him to absorb.

“I’ll give you two some time alone. You’ll be able to get tested later on, probably tomorrow.” The oncologist left them and John re-entered the room, the sobering news still ringing in his mind. Leukemia. Leukemia. That was a word he hoped he would never have to hear concerning a loved one, much less his fiancee, or Sherlock for that matter. Damn it, it always came back to Sherlock. He was dead and gone, it was time to move on. But John wondered what would happen if Sherlock were to be in this situation, how he wouldn’t bat an eyelash, how he would take his meds and continue to starve himself despite the fact that he needed sustenance in order to not pass out or be rushed to the hospital, how Sherlock would be in denial about all of it and insist that he was fine. He would continue to live his life as he normally did, because Sherlock, albeit spontaneous at times, was a man of habit, and did not like for his ritualistic lifestyle to be interrupted by anything, not even a life-threatening disease.

John realized this, but it didn’t make the situation any lighter or easy to deal with. He sat back down in the chair next to Mary and kissed her hand, rubbing the back of it with his thumb. She was calmer now, but the terror still remained in her eyes.

John’s breathing faltered for a bit, then returned to normal. He bit his lip before he said softly, “Everything’s gonna be okay. We’ll be alright.” He wrapped an arm around her and she began to sob into her hands, her vapid blue eyes filling with tears, her face becoming covered in the saline. John tried his best to maintain his composure, it was the soldier in him; this time he... let go. For the first time in a long time he had felt an empathy that hit closer to home than he intended. He could not help but cry with her, his face distorting and eyes clenching shut. Her pain was his pain. She hurt and he hurt right along with her. Everything might not be alright, as he finally realized. Everything was wrong. All he could do was cry.

______________________________________________________________________________

 

Sherlock panted, the wound in his belly taking its toll on him. It was a minor stab wound, he didn’t require any hospital assistance, as far as he assessed in the meantime. He had managed to kill his 11th victim, a Russian man, known for his particularly brutal rapes and strangulations. He, however, was not one of Moriarty’s goons, merely a bump in the road that the bleeding detective had not intended to cross. Sherlock fled the scene, the dying dusk perched on the horizon and light quickly escaping him. He needed to find shelter, and soon, or else he would be caught by the grasp of the enemy.

Through trees and forestry he finally saw lights in the distance, beyond the shrubbery and foliage, and sighed one of relief. He broke out on the other side and was confused, to say the least, at the ultimate lack of buildings anywhere near him. He had just left a gymnasium, so there had to be other structures nearby. Where were the lights coming from? Where exactly was he? There was no one but a long and lonely road with bright, too bright streetlights aligned on the way, and what seemed to be a small town down along the way. He made it a mile dow the road before one black sedan pulled up next to him, cruising to a casual roll. Sherlock was still disoriented and did not pay much attention to the vehicle, until it came to a stop, and a large man got out. He walked toward the injured detective; his demeanor threatening. Sherlock tried to flee, but his body failed him.

The strongman grabbed Sherlock by the arm before he could escape, and injected him with some sort of drug. “Who are you?” he gurgled, the substance’s effects already taking its toll. Sherlock was dragged to the car and was strapped into the backseat, where a familiar-faced woman sat, fiddling and keying her Blackberry keenly. She smiled, her eyes not leaving her cellphone. “Long time no see,” she hummed as Sherlock slipped out of consciousness.

______________________________________________________________________________

Sherlock awoke in a haze,the environment around him uncomfortably foreign, but the smells were dangerously familiar. It smelled of peppermint and spice, a scent he knew only two people to carry. He attempted to sit up, but the bandages around his waist prevented him from making such dramatic movements. He groaned as he rolled to his side and finally managed to sit upright, the extent of his injuries being realized. His abdomen was covered with significant bruises and welts; he was almost certain he had cracked a rib or two. He observed the room around him, the intricate paintings on the wall, the Gothic trim on the walls, the velvety nature of the atmosphere. Oh yeah, he knew exactly who had found him.

He noticed the dark pajamas he was wearing and realized that someone had undressed him, but clearly that was not the matter at hand. His mission was now to somehow find his way out of the room. He again realized that his opponent was a rare breed and possibly even more intelligent than he was, and that his chances were slim, but feasible. He stood to his feet and was surprised to find that there were no traps to be found. No squeaking floors or secret rooms or breaks in the dust lines, anything. He swallowed hard and walked towards the door, his options almost nonexistent. He lifted a hand to open the door, but was interrupted by it opening anyway.

He wasn’t surprised to see who it was. 

Mycroft stood in between two other men, their height even overpowering his. He bore the most unamused face he could possess and held his head down low, his anger beginning to flush him. “Excuse me, men,” he said in a terrifyingly calm tone. “I need to take care of something. If you would, I’d like some time alone.” The men glanced at each other and left the brothers alone, closing the door behind them.

Mycroft eyed his younger brother up and down disappointingly, his condition embittering. He looked malnourished, exhausted, unhealthy, depressed... disgusting. The room was completely silent for agonizing minutes until the sound of a harsh smack across Sherlock’s face resounded in the room. Sherlock stood and bore the assault, not saying a word in reply.

“Care to explain?” Mycroft spoke softly, a clear sign of overwhelming anger. He gritted his teeth and smacked Sherlock again with the back of his hand after he failed to answer. “What’s all this, Sherlock? Hmm? Is this some sort of experiment you’ve been working on? You take a man’s psychosomatic limp away and now you try to give it back?” Sherlock did not speak, the words unworthy of leaving his mouth. There was no way to explain this. “How long?”

Sherlock closed his eyes and answered after too many moments. “How long, what?” 

Mycroft jolted with anger. “How long have you been gone?”

Sherlock pressed his lips into a thin line on his mouth and spoke. “You know how long I’ve been gone-”

“Yes, Sherlock, but do you?” 

The younger man sighed. “Ten months, eighteen days, 4 hours.” He gulped and clenched his hands together, the words ringing in his head. Wow, that long. Sherlock was... ashamed. A feeling he hadn’t felt in over a decade, and maybe even longer than that. It was an strange feeling, one he was not able to recognize so quickly.

Mycroft paced the area in front of Sherlock, contemplating how he would put this, how to articulate his emotions for him so he would understand. “What is all this, Sherlock? Hmm? What is all this for? What are you trying to prove? Why? Do you know what you’ve done? What you’re still doing by not returning?”

Sherlock bit his lip, trying to keep it from trembling. He, for once, was speechless.

“Sherlock, John is... John is not where he should be. He is not in a healthy, functioning place. He needs counseling. He refuses to take my help, which is understandable. He is... absorbed in the idea that distracting himself will cause this entire this to dissipate, and that he will recover quickly.” Sherlock jumped at the mention of John. He had thought of John every day in his absence; he missed him dearly, painfully. 

“John...” he whispered, trailing off.

“Yes, John!” Mycroft exploded. “John Watson, your best friend, whose life is deteriorating before mine and everyone’s eyes, Sherlock. Did you know he got engaged? That his fiancee is desperately ill? No, of course you didn’t, because you’ve been living in this self-centered little bubble for most of your life!” Mycroft continued, his fury spilling out and being spat in Sherlock’s face. “You arrogant, selfish child, you. Your only motives have been yourself and your interests, so why would I think differently now? How stupid of me. Well it’s time for you to learn that your actions have consequences, Sherlock. They do not just affect you, they reverberate outward, to the people around you, damn it. You have utterly broken that man.”

Sherlock’s face twisted. He inhaled sharply. “I was trying to save him-”

“You did no such thing! He lost everything, Sherlock, everything when you left him, because you were everything to him, you... imbecile.” Mycroft huffed and gritted his teeth again, the lividity in his walk making it hard to keep his balance. “Save him, save him from what? Moriarty? His goons? His criminal network? Sherlock, I can assure you they don’t give a damn about John. They are not about to go out of their way to kill an army doctor with a bad shoulder. You did this because of Moriarty. You wanted to kick this man while he was dead. What are you trying to accomplish? If you want to save John, then I suggest you go back to him before something horrendous happens to him, by his own bloody hands.”

The detective’s face was filled with dread. What did that mean? John wouldn’t. He would never...

“Yes Sherlock,” Mycroft continued, “John is capable of such a thing. Before he met you I’m almost certain he was on the brink of suicide, what with the revolver he owned, even though he had been discharged. I know he could do it, if ever he became so depressed he was no longer able to rationalize further living. He is a shell of who he once was.” He gave a hard stare to his brother, whose resolve and urge to defy him was crumbling. Mycroft pointed a stern finger to the bed, where Sherlock glumly sat.

“He was in danger, Mycroft. Moriarty would have killed him, he would have been killed had I not intervened and done this. This has been hard on me, too,” Sherlock knew the words were true, but at the same time he had a difficult time convincing himself completely. His brother paced in front of him hastily, frantically.

“There is a limit, Sherlock. A limit to the things that I would do for you. Even I, who would go as far as to plant devices in your home or have men follow you or pay you to give me information, and even then my efforts reach worlds farther than that. I could have let you get slapped around by our father,” he hissed, Sherlock’s shoulders lurching. “I could have let you get thrown out of Uni. I could have let the authorities handle you and your addiction. I could have let you walk into several cars, never to see you alive again, I could have let you stay on those filthy streets. I could have told Lestrade to arrest you and put you in jail for the maximum sentence, but I didn’t. No, I was the elder Holmes brother, the one who had to save you from danger that you, often times, got yourself into. You never failed to push my limits, to test my connections, see whether or not I would be able to help you, and now, I don’t know if I can keep this up.”

“You would mention father,” Sherlock replied quietly, his voice breaking. “You were always his and Mum’s favorite, you were the one who did no wrong.”

Sherlock’s breath hitched when Mycroft grabbed him by the collar, their faces centimeters apart, his livid eyes boring into the detective’s. “Damn it, Sherlock, Father is dead. And even if he wasn’t there was no way he would come back. We were experiments, Sherlock. Bred by a sociopath to see if children like him could be created. And here we are, and there he went once he had everything he needed. He is never coming back, Sherlock. Grow up.”

The two of them were brought back to their childhood, a sight of a man with rigid features and auburn hair staining their eyes. He weld a suitcase and a glorious black coat, a look of triumph and boredom on his face. He left. He never returned.

“You had better hurry up with this stupid mission, before you lose something you aren’t planning to. He doesn’t have much time, Sherlock. Once she goes, he will be a ticking time bomb, ready to detonate whenever he sees fit.” Sherlock’s lip was trembling, and a few tears escaped his closed eyelids. As much as he would like to believe that John was a strong dependable person, he was just as human as everyone else; weak and vulnerable and likely to make an irrational decision, even one such as suicide.

“He wouldn’t do that-”

“He would. And he will. And stop crying. It’s quite unbecoming of you.” Mycroft straightened his tailored suit and turned around, his one-sided row with his younger brother evidently over. He walked towards the door and opened it, then paused before tilting his head to the side coyly, yet the darkness in his eyes was apparent. “You have to hurry, brother dear,” he purred in his deepest and most calm voice, “or you will lose the only thing you hold dear.” The click of the door closing reverberated against the walls and even through Sherlock’s brittle heart. His chest was heavy, and he finally buried his face into his hands and wept, sorrowfully and guiltily. 

“I’m so sorry,” he sobbed woefully, to himself, to Mycroft, to Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson and Molly. To John. He bawled like the child he knew he still was, latching on to the past and the trivial emotions often tied to it. He felt low, alone, miserable. More than he had in almost a year’s time. He leaned back and let the silk sheets cool his back, the soothing feeling ebbing the sobs. He felt his eyes drooping; he must have been more tired than he thought. He was soon asleep.

______________________________________________________________________________

John tossed and turned, his dream causing him to move about hurriedly. Sherlock had jumped from St. Bart’s, and John ran to his side, but the distance between them grew, unfairly enough. There were throngs of people knocking him down and pushing him out of the way, trying their best to keep this man from saving his friend. Anderson and Donovan stood in front of him, smiling evilly. Sally hissed at him, “I told you he’d do this, you know.” John slammed through her and made it to Sherlock’s side, his face covered with blood, his eyes still wet from his tears. He opened his mouth to speak and his jaw dislocated, his crooked mouth gargling. Somehow the words still came about, “”Why didn’t you save me?” They rang in John’s head over and over, until he jolted from his sleep, a fine layer of sweat on his skin, and his heart racing. He rubbed the back of his neck and a hard sob escaped his throat. He inhaled hard and doubled over, the pain or solitude heart-wrenching. He had lost it all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh GOD, this chapter was hard to write, what with the, you know, emotional aspect, and the medical terms. Also, if you see a flaw in this LET ME KNOW.


	6. Omnipresent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A chance visit doesn't end the way Sherlock expects. John finds comfort in an unexpected place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS TOOK A WEEK TO WRITE. /sobs
> 
> But anyway, yeah. I was kinda tearing up towards the end. Just. Yeah. I'm not sure where I got the idea from but. Yeah. I hope you like it. :'V

Mycroft groggily pulled himself from sleep in the wee hours of the morn. He realized just how old he was getting as he cracked his spine and stretched longer than usual. He reached over to turn on his lamp and was not surprised to find a note on his nightstand, etched in scribbled handwriting, obviously belonging to a certain younger brother of his.   
“Not a word of this to John. SH”  
Mycroft groaned. It was to be expected. He knew Sherlock wouldn’t stay for very long. He simply anticipated that maybe, just once, he would leave behind a word of sentiment, a thank you, or an apology. Nevertheless, he observed the words and took them to heart. “Fair enough,” he mumbled to himself. He prepared himself for the day and his visit to 221 B, to discuss some matters with John. Meanwhile Sherlock ran off on his own adventure of sorts.

Sherlock had left the well-adorned house over an hour ago. It was still dark; the sun had not yet graced the world with its presence. He was back in London, a place he had missed dearly. His last two targets had evaded him for much too long; a man by the name of Evan Williams and Sebastian Moran, Moriarty’s trusted right-hand man and assassin. Williams would be an easier catch than Moran, that much was certain. The fact that they had been able to evade him for nearly a year baffled him, and at the same time, rubbing his stubble in impressed confusion. Sherlock hadn’t shaved in almost 2 weeks, and was very aware of the fact that he reeked of cigarette smoke, blood, and sweat. But he was on a roll now. He was so much closer to finding these criminals, so close to seeing John again, so close to touching, talking to, being with him again.

Sherlock didn’t quite realize how much he missed John until his own birthday. For the years that he knew him, John would treat Sherlock like royalty on his birthday, much like a father would treat his son or a lover to another. He paid for his takeaway and stayed quiet for a long as he could so that he could retreat to his mind palace, a place where he could think unabashedly. This year, he was extremely alone in every sense of the word. He tried his best to tell himself that he lived on his own before, and he could do it again. But John left a rather prominent imprint on Sherlock’s life, one that was very difficult to repair. He missed him dearly.

It had become a normal occurrence to choke back tears and even retreat to some hidden area so that he could let everything out. He noticed his panic attacks were returning slowly, but surely, and the need to use was itching at the back of his mind, a last resort of all last resorts. He would just have to hold out a little longer.  
His hair was short, and still mildly blonde, despite the fact that his raven roots were peering through his scalp. His eyes were bloodshot and wrapped in tired, wrinkling skin. He was aging much too quickly for a man in his mid-thirties.

Sherlock would regret his next decision.

He walked through the familiar streets and alleys, slipping in and out of traffic and scarce crowds. It was still quite early; the city would not be busy and bustling for at least another hour. And a certain someone would not have work until 8 that morning. He finally arrived at the familiar flat and with his trusty miniature lock-picking kit, found his way inside and sat quietly on the couch, waiting for his expectant (or, perhaps not) host to meet him. His eyelids grew heavy and he found himself wafting in and out of sleep. He was interrupted by an uproarious scream loud enough to wake the dead.

“SHERLOCK!”

He gasped, but then sighed one of relief.

Molly was there.

She stood in her hallway, wearing nothing more than a bathrobe, her hair in a sloppy mess. Sherlock correctly deduced that she had a guest for the night, and that she had gained weight since he had last seen her. She started using a new type of shampoo and toothpaste, and her nails hadn’t been manicured in quite some time. Was this all because of him?

“Molly. It’s nice to see yo-”

“What on earth are you doing here?!” She boomed, still not desensitized to his presence. 

“I’m visiting.”

She grimaced at the man; it was dreadfully early and she was caught in a quite perplexing situation. “Really? For how long? I suppose you’ll drop by and say hi to John? Hmm? 

Maybe pay Lestrade a visit? Or maybe you’ll just drop this whole charade and come back home?”

Sherlock was somewhat surprised at her reaction. Molly was no longer the timid, quiet floor mat that he once knew. She had been more assertive, obviously, since she had brought a man home. The look in her eyes was a cold one, and a furious one. They said, “Yes, Sherlock, I’ve changed, we all have.”

“You can stay on the couch for a bit. I have work in a few hours. You’d better not be there when I get back,” she hissed.  
Sherlock laid back down and waited until Molly and her “partner” left. Sherlock didn’t manage a very good look at him; all he managed to deduce was that he was a heavy smoker and maybe was a cop once before in his life. They scurried past him while he steepled his hands underneath of his chin, and consumed himself in thought.

For the first time in months Sherlock could think clearly without interruption. He had collected so much data in the time since he left John, and his mind was wasting away, slowly but surely. Oh, how he missed this. He missed the quiet, the calmness, the peace that John provided. Sherlock’s mind went a thousand miles a minute, and his body would follow if it were humanly possible. John was the quiet before the storm, the balance in Sherlock’s life, the voice of reason.

Sherlock sighed after realizing that 4 hours had gone by. All the time spent was thinking about his flatmate, and although not completely uncommon, in this situation, it was quite sad. He gathered himself and left the flat, but not before rummaging Molly’s refrigerator for orange juice, which he drank straight from the bottle, and a bit of pasta, from two days prior. He found that Molly’s culinary skills were marginal at best. After a quick bite Sherlock left the flat and roamed around the city, taking in the new sights. Ten months was quite a long time, and the streets had gotten more hectic, more dangerous, more… exciting. God, he couldn’t wait to come back.

Sherlock wandered around until he found himself near 221B, and the urge to run inside and see John was powerful. He gulped and sighed, and watched the apartment. Mrs. Hudson walked outside and swept around and spoke to passersby and the occasional customer. She seemed… content. No. That wasn’t the word. She was… suppressing something. The hurt? The pain? Was she putting up a front for the sake of everyone around? This wasn’t the sincere happiness she often emanated. She was only pretending.

Damn.

She went back inside, leaving Sherlock to his own devices. Only an hour or so later did John finally emerge from the flat. He had a woman on his arm. Who was that? She looks so small. But she was his age. OH. His fiancée. She was so frail, so sickly. And John was is no better condition. He looked tired, exhausted, even. He had been drinking. Oh lord, Sherlock thought, please don’t wind up like Harriet. 

John struggled arduously with the fact that his wife was going to die much sooner that he was, or than she wanted to. After weeks of testing they determined that no one was a match for her bone marrow in an immediate vicinity of her, and chemotherapy would be a sort of “hit or miss” tactic, one that would diminish Mary’s strength quickly and dramatically. They both agreed that as long as there was a chance, it was worth it. Mary and he boarded the taxi and made their way to St. Bart’s where she could begin her treatment.

“Remind me to thank Mycroft for all of this,” he said lightly. The worry was still in his voice; he faltered. His strength was dwindling. “He’s been so generous. I don’t understand why he’d help us.” He glanced at Mary, in wait for a reply, but received nothing. She stared out of the window in a stoic and morbid silence, one John only experienced shortly after 

Sherlock’s passing. It was uncomfortable and immaculate silence.

The chemotherapy was painful and tedious for the two of them. Mary had to endure hours of treatment that left her feeling brittle and her hair wispy and thin, while John had to see his wife deteriorate. About midway through the treatment, John received a call from Mycroft, the buzzing of his phone alarming him.

“H-hello?” he answered tiredly as he got up to leave the room.

“Hello, John,” Mycroft cooed. “If I may, I’d like to visit the flat later on today. There are some things I’d like to discuss with you about the state of your future with Mary, your plans for marriage, and so forth.”

John gulped. This conversation had been several months coming. “I understand. I’m actually not home right now, but you’re free to come over this evening and discuss a few things.”

“I’m aware of your absence, John. I’ll be sure to have a car sent to the hospital. Those taxis are quite costly. I will see you then.”

The dial tone was a somber one. John’s heart sank further and further into his torso, his gut twisting and flipping. Mary’s future was very quickly fading away. The chance of her surviving was so narrow, so slim. The injustice of it all was too much; too much time then, not enough time now. Which was more painful, having someone snatched from you in the blink of an eye, or having someone dangled in front of you with no way to salvage them? John gulped again and reentered the room. Mary was quiet, like she had been.

The two of them were escorted back to the flat via Mycroft’s minion, who avoided eye contact, and entered without a word. Mary moved slowly up the stairs with the aide of John, and sat on the couch with a sense of end-of-the-day finality. John pecked her on the cheek and strolled into the kitchen, sporting an obviously forced smile. “Would you like some tea?” he asked in an airy voice. Mary stared out of the window, her thoughts elsewhere. “Or maybe some water? Milk?” Still no answer. “Mary?”  
She breathed a heavy sigh and spoke, still staring out of the window at nothing in particular. “I’m not going to make it, John,” she returned in an unwavering tone. John’s face immediately flushed, a lump in his throat forming. “It’s not something we can help. John, I’m…” she paused and choked a sob back from her next sentence. “I’m going to die.”

John trembled. “Mary… please don’t talk like that-”

“Don’t you tell me what to do. I’m not stupid, you know as well as I do, if not more, that there’s no chance. Don’t tell me you’d throw away years of medical knowledge just to please me.”

That shut John right up. Who was he kidding? Probably himself. Only himself. There were several things in his life that were obvious to everyone but himself, unless of course he decided very blatantly not observe them. Sherlock had a tendency to remain in the back of his thoughts, a constant reminder of how plain lonely and miserable John was. Mary was someone he cared for but was she really someone he knew on such a level? No, she wasn’t one of his old girlfriends. She was something more.  
But there was still Sherlock.

The memory, the feeling, the presence was still there, haunting him. It was omnipresent, terrifying.

“I won’t,” he replied. “And I know.”

He sat on the sofa with her and wrapped an arm around her. Her hair was brittle, her eyes glossy. She had lost a considerable amount of weight, and the light in her eyes had dimmed. She was once so full of life, so joyful, jubilant. John remembered her from the day he met her, on that blustery autumn day. He breathed again, unaware that he was even holding his breath. 

The telly buzzed with news and unimportant programming until John found that Mycroft was outside of the flat, waiting for his approval to enter. Mycroft climbed the steps and sat on the armchair that his younger brother used to occupy. 

“I’m glad you allowed me to visit you on such short notice, given the circumstances. But there are important matters which much be discussed post haste. If you two would like to be married, we much acquire a pavilion in which to have a ceremony, since Mary…” he looked at her with disdainful eyes, then back to John. “Well, the sooner, the better, yes? A guest list is in order. I take it you’d prefer a smaller, more intimate wedding, yes?”

“Yes, I guess you’re right,” John answered uncomfortably. “But please, Mycroft, you’ve already done so much. Why all of this?”

“Because I want to,” he said, the guilt hanging on his tongue.

The somewhat poignant moment was interrupted by the sound of John’s phone vibrating with the alert of an incoming text.

Hey, John. Not sure if you’re busy but I need some help with a case. Please? 18:49 17 April 2013

“Lestrade, I presume?” Mycroft hummed, his eyebrows raising a tad.

“Yeah,” John answered. “He needs help with a case but I really should stay home with Mary-”

“I’ll be fine,” she interjected, the only words she spoke since Mycroft entered the flat.

“But Mary, I need to-”

“You don’t need to do anything, John,” she interrupted. “I know to take my meds. I’ll be alright. Please. Go.”

John looked at her with trepidation and stood. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, John. Go on.”

John grabbed a jacket from the coat rack and headed out of the flat. Mycroft slid from the chair and over to the window, where he saw John hail a cab and make his way to the 

Yard. His eyes became slits. “He needed that, wouldn’t you agree?”

Mary looked at him blankly, then closed her eyes in understanding. “Really, Mr. Holmes. Why are you helping us?”

The politician exhaled sharply. “Because he’s family, in a sense. I can’t help but feel the obligation to assist him.” He turned and nodded towards Mary before heading for the door. 

“He does this all for you,” he said before leaving for the evening. Well, he was at least half right..  
____________________________________________________________________________

Sherlock had found himself in a rather trying situation. He had found a man, someone who looked more than suspicious, someone from whom he could hopefully pull information. He attempted to put on his “polite stranger” act, one that was quite handy in pressing matters. He wore a loose hat and a pair of glasses he found nearby. He looked seemingly harmless. It managed to work, of course, until.

Bang.

He dropped dead, right before his eyes. One shot, in the left temple.

Sherlock flew back in surprise, his heart racing. Could this really be happening again?

“Shit,” he cursed under his breath. He looked around momentarily until he saw a car riding in his direction, at which point he fled into the wooded area behind him. He finally came to a halt about midway through, his face flushed and his neck hot. “Shit!” he panted, the wind gone from his lungs. “No,no. Yes, no. Yes. No. No. No. Yes,” he mumbled to himself, deducing from what he saw. He ran his hands through his hair absent-mindedly and gasped. “Goddamn it,” he whispered harshly.  
____________________________________________________________________________

John and Lestrade arrived on the scene together, already exasperated by Donovan’s and Anderson’s antics. Sally decided the best way to react to Anderson’s refusal to leave his wife was to slap him across the face at the office, while most to the workforce watched his stunned amusement. Lestrade obviously would give them fair warning about causing such a ruckus in a professional setting, but the task at hand was the case.

“A guy called the police after he drove past here. So we have a man, around thirty-one, single gunshot to the head. He had a few ounces of cocaine on his person, perhaps a drug deal gone wrong? No signs of a struggle at all.” Lestrade led John to the scene, where the body laid on the ground. “Take a look, will ya?”

John knelt down to the body and examined it as best he could. “Well, he was married, note the ring on his finger. It’s not new. Erm, he may have been trying to get a quick fix, can’t be sure.” His eyes were full of half-assed concentration, his mind still at his flat and on Mary, still on Mycroft and wedding plans, still on Sherlock, who had yet to completely leave his thoughts. “We should probably wait for a ballistics report, though I doubt this wound was inflicted by a handgun. The wound is much too clean.”  
Lestrade nodded and huffed. “I see. You’ve learned a lot from him,” he remarked subtly. 

John did not reply, and the sight of a grey hat about 20 feet away caught his eye. “What’s that over there? It’s a hat, I think.” John walked over to it and picked it up, feeling the wooly texture, running his fingers across the material. He found a reddish hair and pulled it from the cloth. “Maybe this belongs to the guy that shot him?” He fooled around with the fabric for a moment before deciding to sniff it. He froze.

The scent was fresh, and all too familiar. Musky, with a slight chemical twinge. Sure, it was a bit off from usual, but it was undeniable. John looked up in shock and ran out toward the forest, determination in his eyes. Lestrade glanced up and saw the doctor sprinting toward the woodland and yelled out to him. “John! What are you doing?! John!” He was ignored.

John ran deeper and deeper into the woods, until a branch caught his ankle and he was sent flying forward. He huffed with a defeated air and cried out, “Sherlock? Sherlock, please!” He got back on his feet and limped on further. “Are you there, Sherlock? Please!” 

Sherlock heard every word, every plea, every shout and cry. He heard it and felt his heart ripping from his chest. He hid behind a tree and gripped at the bark, trying his hardest not to reply, not to run up and say “I’m back, it’s me, I’m here.” Not to go and touch him, to hug him, pin up against the nearest tree and finally kiss him. He resisted the urge with all of his might.

John quieted down and limped back to the crime scene, where Lestrade waited, a look of concern painted on his face. “John…”he sighed. He reached out a hand and John scuttled past him. “John, I’m sorry, I can take you home, if you like.”

John stared at the road, his leg throbbing. “That would be great, yeah?”

The ride home was tense. John clenched his leg most of the time, while Lestrade kept his eyes on the road.

“You didn’t need me tonight,” John said, breaking the silence. “Why even ask me to come along?”

“Because you needed a break,” Greg replied. “I can’t imagine what you’re going through. I wanted for you to get some time away, you got so much on your plate already.”

“Yeah. She told me today that she wouldn’t make it. I already knew, but…” he paused and chewed at his lip. “I didn’t want to hear that from her, you know? It hasn’t sunk in yet.”

The car fell silent again for a few moments. John breathed. “The wedding is only a month away. I was wondering if you’d be my best man. It’s sudden, but… you’ve been here.”

Lestrade’s eyes were golf balls, and his tan face, very briefly, turned a bright shade of red. “John, I’m.. flattered. I’d be honored to be your best man.” A smile danced across his face. 

“Yeah, it’s no problem. We just would like to… do this all as soon as possible. You know.”  
Lestrade swallowed hard. He gazed at the road and before long, they were back at 221B. They exchanged their goodnights and parted ways. John made his way upstairs, half-dreading the argument that may or may not arise once he saw Mary. However, the entire living area of the flat was completely empty. The kitchen was cleaned, there was a sandwich on the table wrapped in seram. On it was a nicely written message, “I’m sorry, John. I’m so sorry. I love you. I’ll see you in the morning. -Mary”. John slumped into a chair and rubbed his eyes, the ever-present headache reminding him of its presence. He glared at the sandwich and put the plate in the fridge. He wasn’t too hungry; he didn’t need to eat. 

Before he knew it, he was walking toward Sherlock’s room, his heavy steps resonating through the hallway. He opened the door and the room was exactly as he left it; the posters of the periodic table still on the wall, the bed still made perfectly. His scent lingered everywhere. John walked over to the dresser and pulled it open. His sock collection was still intact, and John chuckled. He moved over to the drawer with his shirts and spotted the infamous mauve dress shirt. He picked it up and huffed the smell deeply, finding pleasure and comfort in it. He sighed and inhaled again, the musk filling his nostrils. “Oh God, Sherlock,” he said, tears forming. “Please come back, please,” he wept. He fell to his knees and sobbed into the cloth, trying his hardest not to wake his fiancée. “Please.” He gripped the clothing like a vice, like he was in the shirt himself, like Sherlock was there in his arms.

“Jesus, please…” he moaned. “Come back.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeeeeaaaaah. I sort of rushed a lot. A real lot. :'V I'm sure the timing is a bit off, but I really have a hard time remembering. But anyway, leave comments! I like critiques.


	7. All About Him

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Mary finally tie the knot. However, life seems to keep throwing things his way, as well as some unexpected reunions. There's a lot of explicit language at the end of this chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that I have been trying to get to this chapter for over a month now. Now that I've finally written it, I can say that I can move the story forward faster; I have more concentration. But this chapter literally broke my heart.

If anyone could arrange an event, it was Mycroft Holmes.

For a small, quaint and cozy wedding, it was extravagant. It was held in a local pavilion, and only a small handful of guests were in attendance, including Harry, who promised John she wouldn't be too much of a handful, and even Donovan and Anderson, who were much more fancy to John than Sherlock, but would never bring such a thing up given the circumstances. Mycroft escorted Mary up the aisle, an action of sentiment John never imagined he was capable of performing, let alone willing to do. The ceremony was brief, but heartfelt, and wonderful.

Mary's godson and goddaughter were the ring bearer and flower girl, and Mrs. Hudson could be heard remarking on how absolutely adorable they were. John wore a well-tailored tuxedo, while Mary wore something akin to a dress suit. Much of the area was adorned in white, with violet trim, an allusion to a certain detective. Mycroft found it refreshing, and upsetting to know that Sherlock was still very much on John's mind, even this far in.

There was a brief reception held at the same pavilion, where Lestrade made a toast to the newly married couple, commenting on his helpfulness at the Yard, how Mary was a wonderful and pleasant woman (despite never talking to her for more than 5 minutes at a time), how this wedding was wonderful and how this marriage would be a loving and affectionate one. John noticed his failure to say "long."

After a final slow dance with Mary, John settled down and shared cake and a bit of wine with her, and noted the slight frown on her face. "You look beautiful, you know," he says softly into her ear, ignoring the guests around them. "You're beautiful, Mary."

"Is that the wine talking?" she chuckled, her voice still as soft and deep as the day they met. She hid behind a pained grin and sighed. They were thinking the same thing: "at least we got it over with."

"This is only my second glass," John replied, his eyes full of affection, "and no. I mean it. You're as beautiful as the day I met you. That will never change." He placed a warm hand on hers and rubbed it with his thumb, not really noticing he was doing so until she cleared her throat and pulled away from him. "I can't believe this. We're actually married. Married." His awe was understandable; with a nickname like John "Three Continents" Watson and a love life about as active as a pastor, he was genuinely surprised. He could probably name all of his lovers on one hand. Maybe two. Add in a few toes, too. John was never one for long-term relationships, and enjoyed his one night stands in the past. Mary was different. Or was she? Perhaps it was her timing. Only three months after Sherlock's death did they meet, and start dating. And only three months later did he propose. Then the cancer. And now he wedding. So much seemed to be rushing by.

"I'm tired, John," she breathed. John began to offer for them to go home, but stopped himself when she kept talking. "I'm so, so tired. I want this to end. To be done. Is that a lot to ask, John? Is it?"

John's brow stilled, his eyes closed. He sighed a heavy one. "Mary, I know this must be hard. I'll never fully grasp it but… please keep fighting. For just a bit longer. Please." He wrapped an arm around her and laid a kiss on her cheek, which was partially blocked by a lock of her blond hair. "If not for anyone else, do it for me. Please."

Mary did not want to talk about this. It was painfully obvious, the way she looked away from John, the way she nervously took a sip of her wine, the way her leg began to bounce, and the way her nostrils were flaring with irritation. She was never very good at giving appropriate segue, and this moment would be no different. "John, we should eat some cake, alright? It's red velvet, and I haven't had any yet. Mr. Holmes has had his third piece," she giggled, lifting her chin and pointing at Mycroft, who stood by the large table of food and guilty devoured his slice of the wedding cake. "He's certainly put on a pound or two… or 15."

"Ha, Sherlock used to poke fun at him for it." John chuckled, and covered his mouth as if he'd said something reprehensively rude. "I'm sorry. Hmm." He sighed. "I wish he were here," he said softly. "He doesn't 'do' weddings and ceremonies like this. I think he would have enjoyed this, though. He would have been happy. If not painfully jealous. He always got like this." John looked up from his hands and saw Mary's pained, almost betrayed expression. Her eyes began to become wet with hot tears, and it took more power than she was willing to expend not to sob and walk away.

"Why did you marry me, John?" She was hurt. Confused, angry, and hurt. These were emotions no woman should feel on her wedding night. "I mean, you proposed 6 months after your friend died, and now you talk about him like he's still here. Why do I find myself competing with a dead man?" John looked shocked. No, shocked wasn't a very good word. Perhaps… stunned was a better word. He was unable to reply properly to such an allegation. The reason might have been that she was correct.

"Mary… how could you say that? I love you, that's why I married you!" he replied with a contained rage.

"No, you replaced him. With me."

Boom. That was all she needed.

"I don't believe this," he said, putting a hand over his head. "You can't possibly believe this, Mary."

"Please take me home, John." She looked away from him, tired, upset. "Can we go home? Please?"

John's defeated demeanor gave in to Mary's pleading eyes. It was quite a long day. "Okay, Mary. We'll go home."

________________________________________________________________

John was pulled from his sleep by the sound of violent and painful vomiting. He had no idea when Mary had gotten out of bed or even that she was showing signs of being sick again, but her health was plummeting nonetheless. John leapt from bed and practically sprinted to the bathroom, even though it was about 10 feet from him and found Mary hunched over the toilet, sobbing and heaving. "Oh Jesus," he said more to himself than her, and took hold of the bit of hair that she still had. It wasn't much, but it was enough to get in the way of the messy chunks she spurted out. He felt her forehead and frowned. "You're burning up," he proclaimed. "I'm calling Dr. Joseph," he said before leaving briefly to turn on the light and retrieve his phone. He didn't realize it was 3 in the morning until he actually made the call to a very sleepy and frustrated oncologist, who told them to come in and "see what's up."

After about 20 more minutes of retching and spitting bile, Mary's energy had left her. "3 months of marriage and look at us now," she huffed. "I'm already doubled over a toilet."

"Shh, Mary," he said in a more condescending manner than he intended. "You'll be at the hospital soon, enough, alright? Just try to rest." For once Mary restrained herself and didn't reply with some sarcastic remark. He felt his phone buzz again and glanced down at the message. A grimace found its way on his face.

A car is on its way. Someone will assist you once it arrives. –MH 03:12 27 August 2013

Mycroft. Figures he'd be spying on him in some way. He was almost surprised by his subtlety in the sense. Mycroft had become as much as a convenience as he had become a nuisance. Even though he was always available to help, he lacked an air of privacy and John found that he often prodded into his personal life. It was only on this occasion that he was grateful for it.

John fetched Mary's dressing gown and draped it over her, then stood her up and walked her downstairs to the sofa in the living room. Mrs. Hudson heard all of the commotion and came upstairs to the flat, concerned for her tenants. "Everything alright up here?" she asked sweetly. "Is Mary a bit under the weather again? You should call her in."

"We've got it, thanks Mrs. Hudson," he replied. "I have to run upstairs, could you fix Mary a glass of water? I know you're not my housekeeper, but I'd really appreci-"

"It's fine, love, I'll take care of her. Go on."

John nodded and ran up the steps, two at a time and changed into a pair of jeans, since going out in boxers and a t-shirt wasn't very acceptable. He sent a text Greg's way, with vague details about Mary and how he would be in the hospital for a bit, perhaps a few days, and that hopefully she'd be back home with some more prescriptions, possibly some morphine for the pain she'd experience, and something for the headaches and nausea. Greg replied with a worried text inquiring if everything would be alright, and John insisted that it would be.

That was four months ago.

_______________________________________________

Sherlock was in a real pickle this time around. Gagged and bound, bleeding from the nose, covered in bruises, a black eye, his hair matted and messy, his wrists rubbed raw from the rope, possibly a cracked rib. This was looking grim, grim indeed. What Sherlock had not estimated was that Evan Williams was, in fact, a torture artist, and a good one at that.

"My, my, Mr. 'olmes," said the muscular criminal. "It's been a long time coming, but I finally get to meet the famous Consulting Detective of London." Sherlock wasn't very well listening, he was trying his best to loosen the knots that kept him immobile. But they were unbearably tight and uncomfortable, and he didn't have any time to hold his wrists slightly apart. There so no slack, and the concussion that was setting left him disoriented and drifty. "Please, don't bovver strugglin'. That's a constictuh' knot. You'll be 'avin' a hard time getting' outta that one." The man turned around Sherlock convulsed and shook in his chair, trying his best to free himself, but to no avail. He did his best to remain calm, but at the sight of a crisp steel blade of a freshly sharpened machete, panic set in. He screamed against the towel in his mouth, desperate to escape the razor-sharp metal inching towards him.

"Aw, don't fret, Shuhluck," he gurgled. "It won't 'urt too much, losin' a pinky, or foot, or… somethin' else," he said, pointing the blade between his legs. "Now, 'old still…"

Sherlock made a sound found between a whimper and a shriek in anticipation for the beginning cut, but felt nothing. He opened his eyes, not realizing he had closed them, and saw Williams on the ground, a gunshot wound on his neck, and one in his temple. Dead as a doornail. Sherlock wasn't sure if he should be relieved, since the imminent threat had been taken out in front of him, or terrified, since the person with the gun was still able-bodied and dangerous.

Suddenly, Sherlock was stricken with a blow against the back of his head, and was thrust into unconsciousness.

He awoke several minutes later, completely free and patched up. His black eye was still visible, and he might need to go to the hospital for those ribs, but he wouldn't risk it. Evan was dead. He was so close. So fucking close to seeing John again, so unbearably close to returning to the flat, and sleeping in a bed, an actual bed, and solving cases, and…

Please, Sherlock, he said to himself. Who are you kidding? John's moved on without you. He's married now. He's got a life. You are no longer welcome.

Sherlock hopped to his feet and limped out of the room; his exact location was something he never knew. He could have been in Detroit for all he knew, and he would have no clue. The detective hobbled out of the building, which ended up being a gymnasium, much to his surprise. He made it to the street and nearly collapsed, but was salvaged by a familiar black Audi pulling up to the curb where he lay. A large figure helped him into the vehicle, where Mycroft sat, familiar umbrella in hand. "Get in Sherlock," he hummed. "You'll catch your death out here. It looks like you were unnervingly close to it."

Sherlock looked at his older brother with half-swollen eyes and turned away. He hadn't felt this vulnerable since his days after university, with the bouts with cocaine, and the withdrawal and subsequent relapse he experienced. On many a night he found himself escorted to Mycroft's abode, coming down from a dangerous high, in the verge of injuring himself or others. Mycroft left with a few busted lips ripped collars in his day.

"Shut up," Sherlock hissed back dejectedly. "I don't have much longer. All I have is Moran, and-"

"Moran is dead, Sherlock." Mycroft cleared his throat and adjusted his tie. "Picked off by a government official. No arrests were made. He was killed on the spot. He's dead." He saw his brother nearly melt into his seat exasperatedly. "You don't have to keep doing this anymore."

"I don't want to," Sherlock huffed back. "But I can't go back, Mycroft. John…has moved on. He's living life with the knowledge that I'm dead."

"You know, Sherlock, I must say, I am a bit miffed at all this giving up you seem to be doing," Mycroft replied, beyond the realm of annoyed. "Please, explain to me why you think that leaving for over a year and deciding not to return to your best friend sounds like a good idea, especially after the rubbish you fed me that you were trying to 'protect' him." His tone was calm, rigid, almost pleasant. "You must find atonement for your actions, Sherlock."

Sherlock sunk into his seat stared out the window with his good eye. He hated Mycroft. He was rarely wrong, and he hated it.

__________________________________________________________

"The arrangements have been made," said John, with Lestrade listening on the other line of his cellphone. "She's got about a month. I'm going to do my best to spend most of my time with her until the end." John could practically hear Lestrade frown on the other line. "We're going to make her as comfortable as possible."

"John, you know if there's anything you need, just ask, and I'll make it happen." Greg huffed and rubbed the back of his head, forgetting John wasn't in the same room as him. "I'm here for you." Lestrade was interrupted by the head of another case walking into his office and summoning him somewhere. John heard the frustration in his voice as he said goodbye; his shift was nearly over and he would be forced to stay later than he intended. John pressed the "end call" button on his expensive phone and returned to Mary. Her brother, Robert had joined them and sat at the foot of her bed, knee bouncing, hands clasped together nervously. He was in terrible shape.

"Rob, please don't do this," she beseeched. It was difficult enough having John fawn over her and coddle her to the point of insanity. Mary was a very proud woman, and to be so vulnerable was so unnerving for her. She was someone who stood on her own two feet, someone who wasn't dependent on anyone. "We've done all we can do." John took a seat from near the window and dragged it to the bedside and held her frail, almost scaly hand. Mary was not a very slender woman naturally; she had a bit more to hold on to than most. She carried herself in a respectable and kempt manner. But in her hospital bed, she looked tiny, brittle, disheveled. Her hair was gone, all of it, and her eyes looked dark with fatigue.

"I'm sorry," he replied softly, his voice breaking. "It's just… I never thought this would happen, what with your father, and now you. I'm sorry, Mary, John." Robert buried his head into his hand and sniffled, and waved an arm away to shoo John when he offered to comfort him. "Goddammit," he hissed under his breath. "I have to go home to Barb." He took a few moments to gather himself together and wiped his face clean of the fresh tears he had shed. "I'll be off now." He grabbed his jacket and rushed out of the room with a sense of finality.

"Well, I'm glad he's gone," Mary chortled coldly. "Rob's a bit of a sap, y'know? Been like that since we were kids. I wish he'd man up."

John's eyes narrowed, then softened. "He's about to lose his only friend, Mary. Only a few years after your father died. Can you blame him?" Mary scoffed weakly, and coughed. John came up to her side and gave her a sip of the water from her tray. She calmed back down after a minute or two and laid back down. "John. You never answered my question." The doctor raised an eyebrow and swallowed hard. "Why did you marry me?"

John averted his eyes for split second, then directed them back into Mary's. He found sustaining eye contact with her had become increasingly difficult. Her eyes wanted honesty; the complete and raw truth. "Because I love you."

"John. I'm on my deathbed. If you respected me enough you would tell me the truth. Give me that one last gift."

John gulped, or at least attempted to, since his throat was dry with tension and panic. He licked his lips and tapped his foot, and contemplated doing anything in his power to avoid this conversation, this conversation that he had been putting off for seven months, the question he had asked himself for over a year. He made a noise similar to a stutter, and then cut himself off before he could complete his thought. "I…"

"You love him, John. Sherlock. You love Sherlock. I can't very well use past tense because you still love him. You always have. The way you bring him up in conversation completely unannounced. He's on your mind all the time." John stammered, trying to protest, but found he was unable. "You met me right after his death, and you proposed to me a short time later. All the signs of your personality would let me know that you are a patient man. And yet you jumped into a serious relationship with me. You used me to get your mind off of him. And it didn't very well work."

"Mary, I-" he spoke, but stopped when Mary lifted a hand.

"It's quite alright, John. You were only trying to be happy. And I'll admit, you made me happy too. You made me feel wonderful. I enjoyed life with you. Even when it got difficult, I knew you would still be John in the end, and try to see the brighter side of everything. So, thank you John. And I'm sorry. I'm sorry he left you, and I'm sorry I'll be doing the same thing."

By now, the tears were falling freely, John's face was puckered as he tried to quell his sobs. His lip quivered and his throat croaked and bobbed. He inhaled sharply and a heavy, agonizing sob escaped his mouth. He sunk into her hand and muttered apologies into the blanket under her, weeping the words "I'm sorry" and "I love you, I do." She heard him and believed him. But they both knew Sherlock would always come first, even if he was no longer a part of John's life. She rubbed his head and ran her fingers through his hair, cooing a few bars from "Remember Us," a song the two of them loved.

John lifted his head several minutes later and saw that Mary had fallen asleep in bed, with most of the lights still on. He got up and adjusted his jumper, the one that he had worn for two days straight at Mary's side. He deduced that he smelled offensively, and a shower was underway. Placing a peck on her forehead, he turned off the light and glided around the bed and out of the door. He only planned on being gone for an hour at the most. Just pick up a few clothes and freshen up, and return to Mary without her noticing. It made sense at the time, but being John Watson, his plans were not up for cooperation.

He hailed a cab once her got outside and was back at the flat, the signs of his limp slowly returning. He struggled up the stairs and finally made it into the living room. He looked at the couch. His heart stopped.

"John. You're home." The baritone reverberated through the walls of the flat, its emptiness filled with the long-forgotten sound. "I've… returned."

John's jaw may as well have fallen off, the way it was hanging off of his skull. His breathing hitched, his chest felt tight; was this shock? Possibly. He was paralyzed with the realization.

Sherlock was alive. Alive, breathing, heart pumping, still functioning. He was alive. And in the flat. Right in front of him.

No, this couldn't be real. This was some sort or PTSD symptom. But he never had hallucinations before. Just horrid nightmares, anxiety, depression. No. What was going on?

"Sh-. Sherlock? Holmes? Sherlock Holmes?"

"Ugh, yes John, it's me, Sherlock. Surely even in this lighting you can see that. Or do you not recognize me?" John didn't reply. He hyperventilated and actually started sweating. Was this a panic attack? It was close enough to it. "I've noticed you've gotten rid of my experiments. I can understand, they cluttered the place up but please tell me you preserved them-"

"Who the FUCK are you?" John screamed, his eyes mad with fury. Sherlock actually jumped from the unexpected outburst. "Now really, who are you, hmm? Are you here to fuck with me? To kill me? Who are you? You can't possibly be Sherlock Holmes because he died over a year ago. No. Sherlock is dead. Jumped off a building. I saw his body in the morgue. He was dead as a doornail. He's dead. He's fucking DEAD!"

Sherlock looked away from his flatmate and steepled his hands underneath of his chin once again. "Understandable, you. I'm not surprised you believed it, any normal person would." Sherlock exhaled through his nose and opened his mouth to speak again. "I've taken care of everything I needed to, with some help from a few sources. And now I came back for you." Sherlock barely finished his sentence before he was grabbed by his collar and yanked from the couch. He looked into John's blue-grey eyes. They were furious, livid, hurt, upset, tired, exhausted, utterly mad with conflict, and at the same time… relieved.

"I can't fucking believe you. You leave for a year and a half and expect for me to welcome you with open arms? Do you know? Do you know what I've been through?"

"Like I said, I have my sources, and I can deduce from the condition that you're married now, and that she doesn't have much longer-"

"Shut the fuck up! Shut UP, Sherlock. Fuck you. You… selfish bastard. You don't get to be sorry. Not this time. You've done far too much damage."

"You can't possibly blame me for the leukemia-"

Wham. Sherlock's jaw rang with intense pain. John punched him square in the face with his left, his fist now bearing an impressive mark on it. Sherlock's face flushed and was rushed with blood, and heat, and throbbing with pain. His lip was torn right open, and bleeding profusely. John was pumped with too much adrenaline to notice the ache in his knuckles. "Fuck off, you… son of a bitch."

Sherlock to tried to wipe the blood from his mouth, but it kept coming. He certainly did not expect such a heated reaction, nor was he even remotely prepared for it. He sucked on his lip, mere centimeters away from John's face. He closed his eyes, the regret of returning overtaking his body. He saw how… wrong, brutally wrong he was. For everything. He couldn't apologize. John would only resent him more. He had no clue how to react. Sherlock ignored the rational, logical part of his brain and let instinct take their place for a split second, and leaned into John's lips. The kiss was short, too short, but long enough for John to lean in for a millisecond before pulling back in disgust. "Wha- Don't touch me. Don't come near me." He released the vice grip on Sherlock's heap, homely coat and watched as he fell back onto the couch.

"John, I-" Sherlock pleaded, and John turned his back left downstairs. He tripped down the last two stepped and landed rather sloppily on the floor beneath him. His right leg was aching; his limp had returned. He was grateful for the fact his can had stayed in that closet for as long as it did, and that he wouldn't have to crawl back upstairs to retrieve it. He barged outside and hobbled to the street and hailed a cab down to him.

He was almost tempted to send a text Lestrade's way informing him of Sherlock's resurrection, but decided against it. Instead, he chose another path.

It's nice to know you're not lying to me about SOMETHING. I can't even be sure about THAT. 21:50 18 Jan 2014

John was surprised at how quickly the reply came. He read the message and scoffed.

I apologize. He was doing it for you, not for his own selfish gain. I assure you. Had I informed you his mission may have been compromised. –MH 21:51 18 Jan 2014

John growled and smashed the keyboard with his enraged reply.

Mission? What fucking mission? He couldn't trust me? You couldn't trust me? Did you offer to pay for everything because you felt guilty? 21:53 18 Jan 2014

I did that because you were in need. Please do not mistake my generosity for guilty compensation. –MH 21:54 18 Jan 2014

Bullshit. 21:57 18 Jan 2014

John clenched his phone waiting for an answer, but when it didn't come, he turned it off. He only noticed that his left knuckle was beginning to bruise from the assault he unleashed on that asshole, that moron, that imbecile, that mad son of a bitch. Who did he think he was? To try to insert himself into his life like he had never left. How. Selfish, inconsiderate, horrid. He didn't say sorry. He never has. He never would. It was stupid to expect that he ever would. Mycroft wouldn't, either. In the Holmes' minds, they were completely in the right and made absolutely no kind of mistake whatsoever. In fact, John should be grateful to them for their efforts.

No, John had enough of that. He was done with all of that.

In the hospital room Mary remained asleep, still, quiet. He grabbed her hand and gently rubbed it with his thumb, a habit he had gotten since he met her. He sighed and looked at her peaceful face. "You're beautiful, Mary. You are." He frowned, and began to pour his heart out to her. "I don't want you to go. I tried. I tried so hard. Hell, I even prayed to whatever God may or may not be up there. But I was here for you. I still am. Until the very end, Mary.

"I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. I wasted your time. I miss Sherlock. And you were just meant to be a distraction. But you were more than that. I wanted more from you. And you gave me more than any woman or Sherlock ever have. Although I'll admit… I wanted Sherlock in a way that… isn't right. He was my friend, my companion, and deep down, I wanted… more. I wanted more from him. More than I thought he was willing to give. And I never let him know. But now… I think he may have wanted the same thing from me. Why didn't I…do something?" John stopped to clear his throat and wipe his face clean. "I love you. But I love him too. And it's not fair to either of you. It's not fair I'm alone." He shuddered. "It's not fair you're alone, either, is it. You're leaving and I can't come with you. I'm sorry, Mary Watson. My beautiful, amazing, wonderful wife. I'm sorry."

John breathed and kissed her hand, and let her sleep. She would not wake up again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry. I have what I claim "Mofftiss Syndrome," a disorder that makes me predisposed to torturing the emotional state of the characters I write about, and thus, the readers. I hope you liked it!


	8. My Fragile Strength is Gone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Forgiveness is a long road.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You're in for a lot in this chapter. I must apologize in advance for the pace. If you think it's a bit slow or fast, let me know! I'm still learning, you know.

Mary's funeral was held on a Thursday. She hated Thursdays; her children were often at their most unruly stages of the week. It seemed befitting. There was no organ playing, no choir singing. In between the words spoken by the priest, it was utterly silent, save for a few weeping patrons. John sat up at the very front, as well as Robert and his wife and children. All were adorned with somber blacks and greys, the only attire fitting that or a funeral. Robert was asked to speak on her behalf, and his unintelligible cries made Barbara, his wife, stand up and lead him back to his seat. Several of her friends spoke, and even the mother of one of her students shared some words.

John's eulogy was heartfelt, but his delivery was unsettling. He was stoic, stoned-faced. He showed no sort of remorse; he was making appearances, it seemed. That is not to say that he wasn't upset. He had just cried his tears before then. It was a far cry from Sherlock's funeral, where John could barely contain himself, where the tears rolled freely and the shudder in his voice left an uneasy knot in every attendee's gut, where Lestrade came and gave him a strong, loving hug and sat him down so that he wouldn't speak anymore. No, not today. He was calm, collected, professional, detached.

"I didn't know Mary for very long, and I very much regret that. She was a wonderful, intelligent, kind, beautiful woman. The world is a less bright, less interesting place without her."

The reception at Robert's place was vivid, to say the least. The Morstans were very robust in nature, even after a tragic event like a funeral, and Robert did his best to uphold the tradition as if he were a part of the family.. The food was enjoyable, not really John's taste, but not terrible. He was given words of sentiment from all directions, which he replied with the obvious "thank you" and "she's in a better place," not that he could say that with much confidence. There was much drinking, most of which John attempted to avoid, but certainly towards the end of the evening he left his inhibitions behind and threw caution to the wind.

After about 2 hours of booze and champagne, John was pissed beyond recognition. He was normally a calm, joke-making drunk, but given the circumstances, he became honest, dangerous John. Shouting profanities at guests, wobbling and stumbling around the house. It was a depressing sight. Lestrade found himself dragging John to his car and taking him home. He didn't mind too much; he was looking for an excuse to leave himself. John staggered down the 4 steps towards the driveway, with Greg at his side the entire time. He practically collapsed in the passenger seat of the car, and Greg turned the ignition.

"God damnit, John, you smell like a pub. Jesus Christ." Lestrade pulled off and began the long and tiring drive to 221 B, containing his groans and looks of disappointment and disdain. At the same time, he couldn't blame the guy. John hated funerals; he didn't have to deal with them very often in the military. Anything that would numb him from the heartache, though temporary, wasn't too bad.

"Augh, t'day whuz a g-great day, wan'nit, Greg," John slurred heavily, his breath nearly punching the detective inspector in the face with its foulness. His stagnant odor filled the car, and had it not been in the middle of winter, Greg may have opened the window.

"Just settle down, John, alright? It's been a long day. You've had way too much." He let out an exasperated sigh and continued the trek to John's home, and the ride home was silent for the most part, until John raised a question that Lestrade was surprised he hadn't brought up sooner, and had hoped the subject would come up in more appropriate, more sober circumstances.

"You an' Sherlock, how did you two meet," he hiccupped, his words forming a little more articulately now. "You find him on a case or somethin'?"

Lestrade remained quiet for a quite a bit, but John's lackluster gaze eventually broke him and he spoke of Sherlock candidly. "It was around nine years ago. Mycroft had contacted me about a 'potential asset' to my workforce, someone who could increase my already paramount solved case ratings." John, in his inebriated state, sat and listened intently at the anecdote. The detective glanced over to see if he was still competent enough to understand him, and to his displeasure, he still was. He continued. "I initially wasn't too interested but Mycroft gave me an offer I couldn't refuse and I decided to take him in. The first time I met Sherlock he was high as a kite and I had to wait a bloody hour before I could even get anything out of him. The second time I talked to him he had overdosed." His lips pursed, and he continued. "I gave him an ultimatum. If he didn't clean himself up and stay off the streets, he wouldn't get any cases. Mycroft wasn't too pleased, but he took my word for it. Sherlock fell back into his addictions a few times, but he made it. He's seven years sober. Well, he was."

The mood had taken a turn for the morbid, and John sighed. "It's not fair," he said gruffly, the alcohol making his voice lag behind his thoughts. "He just left like that, he went away." He lifted a hand to his forehead and groaned louder than he probably thought he did. "I miss the violin, an' the experiments, and the messes he left behind. I miss it, Greg," he moaned, inciting a look of pity and concern from the older man. "Why'd he have to leave? Why did he…" his voice slurred off as he choked back a violent sob, and did his best to keep from slamming his hand against the dashboard. He had never let himself get so intoxicated in front of anyone, let alone Greg. Lestrade struggled to keep his eyes on the road and off of his grieving friend.

"And then he juss… comes back all unexpected. Just sittin' in the flat, like he's never left. Fuck him." He groaned heavily, and Lestrade's eyes widened in shock.

"Wh-what? You said Sherlock came back? God, John, you're drunk off your arse, you know."

"S-stop the car," John urged suddenly.

"John?"

"Pull over, now," he said more forcefully, and Greg obeyed. He didn't have to look over to know that John had opened the door and was retching on the side of the road, expelling the booze and food that filled his belly. He vomited for what seemed like a very long time, and shrugged off Lestrade's hand when he felt it graze against his shoulder. He coughed violently and spit a few mouthfuls of bile out before regaining his composure and closing the car door.

"Better?" asked Greg, his hand gripping the steering wheel uncomfortably. This vulnerability was unnerving, awkward, difficult to see. John nodded and waved Lestrade off to keep driving. The sedan pulled off and the 30-minute silence was finally ebbed once he pulled up to the familiar flat on Baker Street. Greg offered a hand to John in courteous assistance, but was denied. The last thing John needed in his drunken state was to have someone escort him to his own home. He climbed up the stoop and fumbled with his keys, but finally made it inside and crawled up he seventeen steps to his living room. He failed to change out of his dress clothes and collapsed on the sofa, not even bothered to freshen up or remove his shoes.

The dream he had was one he had not experienced in over a year, where Sherlock jumped from the hospital building, but this time was… different. He saw everything as it happened on that chilly spring day; the clouds were hovering menacingly above the horizon and the sky was still, quiet. John hated this part; he tossed and turned when Sherlock jumped each time. His body hit the ground with a thud, one of finality and conclusiveness. John knelt over the body of his friend, his blood pooling and running on the sidewalk, his eyes white, pure white and blank with death.

John stared at the corpse, riveted, stunned, and still shocked beyond comprehension. He couldn't cry, not this time. He would become lost in the silver-blue gaze that Sherlock owned, no one else had quite the same stare as him. He was its sole possessor, and he shared that gaze with John, no one else.

And then he blinked.

John flinched when Sherlock curled up into a sitting position, skull still bleeding, eyes still fixed on him. John gasped when a hand touched his face and caressed his collarbone, the feeling almost suffocating. "Let me come back," said the detective, lips unmoving, eyes unblinking. John shook his head and the word "what" failed to escape him. "Please, John." The words were crisp and clear in his ears, and he shuddered at the sound of them.

"Please."

John awoke the next day, still on the couch, still in the same clothes as the previous night. He reeked of alcohol and what he could recall was a bit of his own puke, and nearly gagged at his unkempt state. He was startled by the blanket placed delicately on his half-conscious body, which certainly was not there when he got home. He adjusted himself and was finally right-side up, and the sudden movement sent waves of pain and tension crashing to his head. His throat was sore, and his mouth was dry.

This was one hell of a hangover.

John hauled himself off of the couch and made his way upstairs, the thump of his feet on each step making him wince. He wasn't sure if it was because of the sound itself, or the deafening silence that followed shortly afterward. He stripped himself completely before he had even gotten to the bathroom, his clothes left strewn in the doorway to his room and on the tile floor next to the bathtub. In a swift and practiced motion he turned on the faucet and let the near-scalding water fall from the tap. After a few minutes he decided the tub was full enough and turned off the spigot, and the water stopped. He stepped in and sank into the porcelain, the still-near frigid material summoning goosebumps from his back and arm. He exhaled as he submerged himself, the liquid pooling around and surrounding his ears, and nose and finally, his face.

In the two minutes and thirteen seconds he was underwater he realized quite how much he'd lost: his wife, his sanity, his best friend, even though he had somehow, someway 'returned,' the Sherlock he knew was long gone, most likely. He could admit, life had dealt him a rather unfortunate hand, what with getting shot and having to share a flat and meet such an insane, brilliant, infuriating, fascinatingly beautiful man in the first place, but this. All of this was too damn much. The PTSD ripped him apart from the inside out; he would never inform Sherlock or Mary, not that he ever needed to. Mary observed. She calmed him down after his more violent terrors. Mary asked questions. She asked if he was alright. Sherlock, not so much. John would enter the living room after a long night of tossing and turning, screaming, swearing, cursing and not a single word about the matter would leave Sherlock's lips.

John was sure he cared. But it wouldn't hurt to ask how he was doing every once in a while.

No, John was interrupted from his contemplative state by the sound of footsteps and a tired body gently setting on the toilet across from him. He pulled himself from under and there sat a very tired, no, exhausted, perhaps even completely drained Sherlock Holmes. His pleading eyes kept on John's, which were turning dark with resentment.

"Do you mind? Can I have a private moment in this state of… indecency?" John gritted his teeth and looked straight ahead, not straying sight from the faucet.

"I've seen you in all states of undress, John. You know this. We've lived together for years. You've even seen parts of me which most may deem 'indecent,'" Sherlock returned, curling his fingers in the air at the mention of the word.

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?"

"That depends."

"On what?"

"Is it working?"

"No," John huffed. The silence was long and excruciating. John observed Sherlock now that he had the chance to look at his face. He'd lost so much weight. At least 20 pounds. Luckily it wasn't from using. John was almost surprised he had been able to stay clean for as long as he did. His hair was almost completely black again, save for a few streaks of red and dirty blonde. He was also… tired, his eyelids and cheeks laced with countless hours of unrest and stress, and even… sadness. Even in Sherlock's constant state of biting sarcasm and wit, he looked miserable. Broken. "You kept your key even after all this time," John said, not really asking, but more so making a declaration of the fact.

"Yes, I did. You didn't change the locks, even after marrying her." The wound was still fresh, the gash left behind from Mary's departure. John's look turned to a brief glare at his failure to call her by name.

"What the fuck is your point?" John hissed.

"You waited for me, John. You did. You knew I would come back."

"No Sherlock, I didn't. I knew you were gone. I didn't want to believe it because I'm not like you. I'm not this genius who can see anything and everything. I'm not some gifted savant who can deduce the hell out of whatever I see. I'm some stupid normal person like everyone else in the world who has it within their capacity to mourn for other people, to cry over people they love. I had to let go of whatever hopes I had, whatever wishes I had for you to return. I pushed them away." John could feel his leg tensing up, the memories of the trauma resurfacing, the pain pummeling him in many senses of the word. "I got over it."

Sherlock licked his lips nervously, that last bit striking a cord in a part of him that he didn't like to bring up or acknowledge in most situations. "But this is what you wanted. 'One more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't be dead.' And here I am. You asked me to come back and I'm a tangible form right in front of you, what else is there?"

"You don't fucking understand!" John exclaimed, his body shifting quickly, small waves of bathwater plopping on the floor and getting Sherlock's slacks wet. He fumed and groaned in frustration and tried to maintain his composure, but his senses were leaving him. "That's not how it works. You don't get to die and come back. You just stay dead. All the things I may not have wanted to know, all the questions that were unanswered, now they're biting at me. Now I want to know so much and I'd rather not know. But I have to. I don't want the closure. I don't want to have to go through this again! Don't you fucking get it!"

Once again, silence. Sherlock didn't understand. He couldn't. He couldn't put himself in John's place. His mind would be racing the minute he jumped to the minute he hit the ground. He'd fall apart. He'd collapse. His brain would go into overload. He'd shut down. He'd cease to function. And he'd cling to John the moment he returned. He knew it. They both did. But neither of them had the capacity to explain the phenomenon of grief to Sherlock. Even after losing his father, he'd still be clueless on the matter. Loss was not something Sherlock experienced. Anything he didn't have was something he willingly gave up, deleted, threw away, disposed of to make room for more essential things. He didn't get it.

"Please leave," John growled. "I'm in the middle of a bath."

One of the moments Sherlock wished he could read emotion was this moment. Leave. That could mean an array of things. Leave the room. Leave the flat. Leave my life and leave me the hell alone, I never want to see your face again, and if I don't it will be a day far too soon. Sherlock swallowed hard and stood to his feet. He marched down the steps and left John to bathe in peace, so to speak.

The quarters downstairs were so… normal. The dreary, bleak look of the flat had still remained and though his things were gone, the atmosphere he left behind still lingered. He was his own phantom. Sherlock turned around to see John, fully dressed, in a button-down shirt and some jeans. It was probably the most he had gotten himself together since the funeral, and any time before that. "Do you want to discuss this?" Sherlock asked, his eyes not really focused on anything in particular, their paths shifting away from John's.

"I'd rather not." John ventured into the kitchen to put tea on the kettle, a task he hadn't bothered to do in months, despite it becoming second nature only a year and a half ago. "Not any more than you'd like to listen." He returned with two mugs, one for himself, and one for Sherlock, both of which were prepared with care and precision.

"You may want to make another cup," Sherlock said from the window. "Mycroft's here."

"I can assure you, two cups is all I intend to ever make again." He took a seat and placed the mugs on the coffee table and crossed his legs in apparent irritation. Sherlock smiled, unsure how to interpret that comment. "I don't really have a choice, I guess. We're going to discuss this, whether I want to or not." The doorbell pinged for a whole second and John did not shift from his seat. He glared at Sherlock expectantly until he moved from his spot at the window and let his older brother in.

"Hello John, Sherlock," Mycroft mewled, extending a hand to his colleague. John stared at the gesture and up at Mycroft, a look of disconcertion on his face. He pulled his arm away and shifted uncomfortably. "Right. I suppose I'll take a seat." John remained on the couch while the Holmes' sat in the armchairs near the fireplace. There was good reason; John was about 5 seconds away from beating the shit out of one, if not both of them. They were both guilty of a betrayal John never fathomed either of them would commit, or at least they were good enough people to not have to.

"So whose idea was this?" John asked, his position hard, unapproachable. There was no easy way to answer, no acceptable response, no matter the tone. "How long did you plan on keeping this up?"

"It was mine," Sherlock replied, followed by a scoff from the inquiring party. "I… needed to finish this. Finish what was started."

"And what exactly was started that needed to be finished?"

Sherlock looked at Mycroft, whose calm demeanor only agitated the man. "Moriarty was planning on killing you, John."

"I'm aware of that, Sherlock. I'm not as dense as you may believe me to be."

"It's more than that, John. He planned on killing you. Had I not jumped, you wouldn't be here today. You'd be gone."

John uncrossed his legs and switched them as his foot tapped the air. He was angry and trying to keep himself calm. He was failing. "Alright, so you faked your death. Do you really think you couldn't come to me? You had to go to Mycroft, the man you've had that childish vendetta with for years, but not me?"

"I couldn't risk you putting yourself in danger, John. You were a clear target and there were other factors at stake. Molly could have lost her job because of me-"

"Wait, what?" John cut him off completely. "You-. You told Molly? Molly Hooper was in on this too? Let me guess, she gave you something to slow your heart rate or something and kept you in the morgue for me to see? Is that what you're saying? You trusted her before you trusted me?"

"John, please don't put this on Molly-"

"Believe me, I sure as hell am not."

Sherlock cleared his throat and pressed on. "Moriarty had hired three guns; one for you, one for Mrs. Hudson, and one for Lestrade. I attempted to best him and keep from the call going out, but he shot himself before I could. The order would only be called off if I had jumped, and I did. I saved you."

John blinked and curled his lips. He was furious. Livid, even. His voice wavered as he spoke. "So what you're telling me is that you tried to stop Moriarty from taking me away from you, but he was successful in taking you away from me. For almost two years, Sherlock. I went back to therapy. I tried to move on, rather quickly, I'll admit, which was a mistake on my part, but damn it, don't I deserve to be happy? Even for a moment?" His face flushed red and nose tingled, but he kept speaking. "And you, Mycroft, are just as bad as him. Coddling me, offering me money and rides and bullshit like that. I had no pride left because of you, you… You were just as to blame for this as him."

The room was heavy with the words, the empty air full of tension and hurt. John balled his fist and stood to his feet. "I need some air." He grabbed coat and headed downstairs and out of the flat, not to be seen again. The Holmeses looked up, and away from each other.

"Well, that went much better than I expected," Mycroft hummed.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, and with a hiss he spoke.

"Shut the hell up."

John returned late into the evening, unsurprised to see Sherlock lying on the couch as if he had never left the position the entire day. Sherlock opened his eyes and let them follow his flatmate into the kitchen, where he checked the fridge. No body parts, to the best of his knowledge. With no other business in the kitchen, he headed upstairs, his lips pressed shut. Sherlock swallowed and sighed. "John?" He stopped without saying a word.

"I'm sorry."

John continued to his room, leaving Sherlock alone, more alone now than he had been in 19 months. After an hour he felt a buzz from his phone and read the message from John.

I know. 2:13 8 Feb 2014

The two weeks that followed were difficult, to say the least. After much self-deliberation, John revealed to Greg that Sherlock was, in fact, alive. His reaction was quite unwelcoming, to say the least. He didn't punch him in the face, but he did unleash a stream of profanities that none of them were sure of which he had any knowledge. Sherlock took the insults gracefully, even the ones that brought up his drug use and the nights when he had jeopardized his career for him on multiple occasions. Mrs. Hudson was next, and she actually fainted. Once she came to, she punched and slapped him repeatedly into she collapsed into his chest and sobbed for longer than she intended.

John hadn't seen Molly in months, and when he did, she knew. She knew how much she had hurt him, how much damaged she'd done. The apology was excessive, genuine, heartfelt, and unnecessary. John forgave her, but their relationship, unstable to begin with, had crumbled indefinitely.

The silence at the flat was unbearable. The words neither of them were brave enough to say hovered above them, taunting them with their absence. "Excuse me." "I'll be back." "Move." "Pass that knife." Yes they were talking, but they weren't saying anything. Not now. Not yet.

"John?" Sherlock's voice was soft, and rugged from his chair in the kitchen. "John."

John looked up from his book, his resolve to keep this up any longer almost completely deflated. "Yes, Sherlock?"

"I'm ready to listen."

John's face softened. He left his book on his armchair as he got up and marched to the kitchen table, and sat down next to his detective. The space between them was more intimate, more comfortable. Sherlock could feel himself shaking under the table and kept himself as still as possible. John still couldn't look at him. He hadn't earned that just yet. "Why couldn't you trust me?"

Sherlock felt poised to make a response but was quiet long enough to let John continue. "I would have stayed quiet. I would have helped you, I would have protected you. I would have followed you into Hell if it meant I got to hold your hand on the way. I would have done anything, Sherlock, anything. Why?"

Sherlock's lip quivered and he looked at his hands, which were balled into fists on the table. "I'm sorry, John," he breathed, his voice trembling.

"No, Sherlock, I'm not asking for an apology. I want a reason. Why didn't you tell me?"

Sherlock was still, frozen with the terror of admitting something so vague. "I wanted you to be safe, John. I didn't want to put you in any danger-"

"I was in Afghanistan, Sherlock. I've been shot. I've been in the front lines. I'm a goddamned doctor, you'd be in more danger if I wasn't there to patch you up half the time. I can take care of myself."

"That's not what I meant." John raised an eyebrow. "Don't give me that look," Sherlock said without looking up. "I would have been the one to hurt you. I changed, John. I became this… animalistic, filthy enraged being while I was gone. I've killed men. I've been shot at, stabbed, tortured, terrible things. I would have become colder, more short, more awful to you. And you would have stuck around either way. I was… scared. Not the kind of scared I was at Baskerville; that was a much more material fear. This fear is… unexplainable. I was afraid of hurting you."

John groaned, Sherlock's blinding ignorance resurfacing yet again. "You did hurt me, Sherlock. By not trusting me. I don't… I would have stayed with you. You're my best friend, Sherlock. My only friend. You're all I have. You're all I've ever had." Sherlock looked up, his eyes wet with tears. His face distorted and he grabbed John by the neck and pressed his lips against his, the warmth of his body making his heart skip several beats. John eased into the kiss and opened his mouth, allowing Sherlock's tongue to enter. Several seconds went by as the kiss became more passionate, more heated, more eager. John pulled back to take a breath and stared at his flatmate, stunned by his vigor and courage to even initiate such a thing. "Sherlock…"

"I've wanted to do that for so long, John. I've wanted to be against you, to touch you, to feel you for longer than you can imagine." John caressed his cheek and was blessed to find that those lovely, marvelous cheekbones were left intact after that great punch.

"Same," was all he had the energy to reply with, that kiss, that wonderful contact leaving him absolutely breathless. He stood and led Sherlock out of the kitchen and into the living room, leaving kisses on his neck on the way. He stopped them and brought Sherlock down to his level and tongued him again, his taste something unfamiliar, yet delectable and unquenchable. John moaned into his mouth, the bulge in his pants making itself more known. In an unexpected turn, Sherlock broke off and dropped to his knees. His dexterity had not left him; that much was obvious as John found his trousers pooling around his ankles without a second's hesitation. His erection tented against his blue grey boxer-briefs and Sherlock stroked him through the fabric, the sensation nearly making John's knees buckle. Sherlock tugged at the waistband and John's gentle hand landed on his own. "Sherlock, wait."

The detective looked up with pleading eyes, and John didn't have the heart to stop him from doing this. With a nod he released his grip from Sherlock's finger and sure enough, his underwear had fallen as well. Sherlock took John's swelling organ in his hand and kissed the tip, sending chills coursing through his partner's body. He straightened his tongue and lapped at the glans, satisfied with the sounds John was making, and moved to the frenulum and left a line of saliva down the underside of his cock. "Ngh, fuck," John hissed at the sensation. Sherlock made use of his lips and sucked eagerly at his head before easing some of his cock into his mouth. John's girth was larger than he had expected, and to finally taste and lick it was a gift to Sherlock, a possession that was his and his alone. His inexperience was evident as he gagged on the flesh, the earthy taste one he never knew. He found comfort in a soft hand placed on his head, patting him gently and rubbing the indents of his ears.

John decided it was best to bring them over to the armchair, where they both would be more comfortable. He sat down, half exposed on the rouge leather, and Sherlock crouched over his cock. His concentration was noticeable as he tried techniques he'd heard of but had never been able to practice.

"Relax," John purred. "Just do what's natural. Relax. Go slow." Sherlock nodded around the cock in his mouth and took a few moments to adjust accordingly. He exhaled deeply and took the majority of John's dick at once; the older man groaned and hissed and did his best to keep from thrusting into his mouth, the wet heat that was Sherlock's tongue becoming less of a tool and more of a situation for him. Sherlock held him in place and he eventually stopped grinding. He bobbed his head up again, painfully slowly, and quickly buried John into him again. He repeated this until John was slick was saliva and precum, and the taste of salt was covering his taste buds. John cursed under his breath, and soon was speaking profanities at near full volume.

"Sh-shit!" he seethed, his legs spasming and shaking with stimulation. He thrust slowly into Sherlock's agape jaw and gripped his shoulders. He unsheathed his cock and Sherlock, with final attempt to amaze John again, gave the tip of John's cock one last suck. John cursed as he shot his semen into Sherlock's mouth, his orgasm long-awaited and more powerful than any other lover could give him. The fluid sprayed out onto Sherlock's lip, and his cheek, and even on his mauve dress shirt, the one he wore the most. John sighed as he let his orgasm finally end. He looked down at Sherlock, and had never realized how hot he looked with his cum all over him. "Damn, Sherlock," he whispered, more to himself than the man he was addressing.

"What? Was it… was it good?" He asked curiously.

"No, Sherlock. That was… amazing. Bloody amazing, as only you could accomplish."

Sherlock blushed, then looked away with his next confession. "I… want you to sleep with me, John. I want to lay underneath of you and feel you. Feel you thrusting in and out of me. I want to come with you."

John saw the want in his eyes, the desire, the lust all flooding Sherlock's senses, and he realized that it was all for him. Sherlock craved John, and he waited years to finally exact his motives on him. John couldn't stand to make him wait any longer. "Upstairs," he said, and the two of them were scurrying up the steps to John's room. He left his trousers behind but his underwear was still on, and Sherlock began to disrobe until his partner stopped him. "No, no. Wait," John urged, and Sherlock obeyed.

They reached the bedroom, and John pushed Sherlock down on the semi-soft mattress. His head fell back as John took off his own shirt and underwear and tossed them away. He stood completely bare before his detective, vulnerable and naked as the day he was born, and he was beautiful; even his puckered scar from the bullet that joined them was gorgeous and fascinating to look at, and look at it Sherlock did. John inhaled deeply before crawling over Sherlock and stripping him of his violet shirt and black slacks, and had to contain a gasp. He was so thin, so frail. His ribs were nearly exposed from the lack of nutrition, and the scars. So many lacerations, cuts and stab wounds, some of which haven't healed properly, and were still pink with freshness. John distracted himself by covering Sherlock with soft kisses, with the occasional lick of the soft pink nipple, then back up to his collarbone and neck, and God, he tasted wonderful. He reached over to the nightstand and pulled a bottle of lubricant from the drawer, one he was sure hadn't been used in almost a year, but he was sure it was still good. John opened the container and squeezed a nice amount of the fluid onto his hand, and rubbed them together to warm up.

Sherlock swallowed nervously, unable to do anything but sit back and feel. He cursed his inexperience, his sensitivity, his patience, his fear of confronting John about this months, years ago. He gasped when he felt a finger prod his entrance and slowly slip in, the slight burn startling him. He jerked when he felt it brush against his prostate, the sensation sending chills up and down his spine. "Ah, John!" he yelped, shocked that his body was capable of such a feeling. John took that as a good sign, and continued with his sliding motion, and added a second, and a third digit into the mix.

"Shh, Sherlock," John hummed, using his free hand to stroke the detective's member. Sherlock squirmed underneath of him, feeling pain and pleasure, his mind going a thousand miles a minute, and his body pushing and pulling on the brink of insanity and bliss.

"John, please," he said, practically whimpering. "Please, I don't want your fingers, I want you." He panted; his cock was slick with precome and he was desperate for John to finish the task at hand. "Please, John."

John rolled his eyes and chuckled. He enjoyed seeing Sherlock like this; begging for release, pleading to have John inside of him, to toss away his clothes and take him right then and there. It made his cock even harder by the second. He straddled Sherlock's hips, fingers still inside of Sherlock's loosened hole. He lined his penis up with his entrance, gently coaxing it in bit by bit until it was about a third of the way in, and noticed that Sherlock was huffing and panting. "Shh, Sherlock, relax, please." His patience was legendary in this moment. The tight warmth of Sherlock was so tempting, and it took everything in his power not to thrust like a wild dog into him. But he wouldn't do that. Not to Sherlock, and not to himself.

After a minute or two the detective's breathing slowed and he finally was able to open his eyes and look at John's soft face in front of him. He nodded and breathed "okay" into John's ear, and felt the rest of the doctor's girth fill him. He twitched and pulsed around the man and tried to will his body not to react in the way that it was, and ultimately failed. He moaned when he felt John pull out of him, and slowly push back in again, and again, and again, until he had established a comfortable rhythm. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John and pulled him into a passionate, thorough kiss, one that was wetter and lustier than he had ever had before. He yipped when he felt John nibble at his lip and squeezed down on him, inciting a powerful thrust from the older man. The soldier wrapped a hand around Sherlock's swollen cock and with a few sharp tugs, brought his friend to a powerful climax.

Sherlock let out a lust-filled howl as he came, spraying the both of them with his hot semen. He didn't have much time to recover from his own orgasm before he felt John fill his insides with cum, and continue to thrust until his ride was over. "God," John groaned, before collapsing on Sherlock's chest. "That was… that was amazing," he moaned, his composure still not with him at the moment. "Good, good. That was… good." He panted and rubbed Sherlock's curly raven hair, now damp with sweat, and rolled off of him. He glanced over and saw Sherlock staring at the ceiling with a blank, steely expression. "Sherlock? You alright?"

"I… I'm fine, John. I am. I've just… never experienced that. Never."

John rubbed his partner's shoulder and pulled him in closer, so that he was rested and nuzzled under his chin. "Well, thank you for letting me the first person to show you such a thing."

Sherlock's face lit, but soon succumbed to the post-coital exhaustion, something he had read about but obviously didn't know until now. "Y-you're welcome." He pulled the covers over them and shifted to a more comfortable position on his friend. "Thank you, John. For everything. For this life you've blessed me with, for this friendship, for… hope. I missed you dearly, John. I tried so hard to get back to you because without you, I have no one. Before you… I was alone, too."

John smiled. "Well, we're alone together now."

Sherlock blushed. He realized it felt nice to be a little human every once in a while. To love was a beautiful thing. He knew that now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah. This chapter took a while to write, and I intended to have it finished n Wednesday, but there was so much that I felt needed to be included. So that's why it took SO long. And it's much longer than most of my other chapters. Please comment if you enjoyed!


	9. Normality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock attempt t rebuild their relationship, and encounter some obstacles along the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sup. I took a couple of weeks off of writing, for some reason. But I came back and now I think I've improved a bit. Also, I would like to thank my friend Monica for helping me with his chapter. There are a few harsh words in this chapter, that may trigger something for some readers. Just be cautious, please. There's a bit of angst in here too, so yeah.
> 
> Anway, I hope you enjoy!

She seemed translucent, with eyes that were glazed over and a pallor that was akin to a phantom. John saw her and reached out to her, beckoning her presence. "Mary," he called, but was met with no reply. He yelled out to her again, and again, as she slowly faded from existence. He ran in desperate pursuit after her, finally catching up to her and ghosting his fingers through her intangible hand. He gasped. "Mary… please, Mary."

With heavy eyelids John awoke the next morning. He was wrapped in Sherlock's slender arms and felt his warm breath on his neck, the feeling leaving him almost breathless. Sherlock's eyes were closed and his breathing was slow and even, but John couldn't be sure if he was sleeping. He was Sherlock after all, and his actions were often cryptic and cunning, but that was what John found so beautiful about him. He began to wriggle from his detective's grasp, and was only met with his limbs wrapping tighter around him, enveloping his arms and shoulders. He couldn't help but grin at that. Sherlock hadn't changed. Possessive as ever.

"Where the hell do you think you're going?" Sherlock grumbled lightly, his voice still rough from sleep. He planted a soft, loving kiss on John's neck and sighed into his hair. "You've no need to shower right this second, it's only 7."

John grunted and shifted to his side, the arms around his body proving to be somewhat bothersome, if seen from a completely objective point of view. "Eh, right. How long have you been up?"

"For a little over 2 hours." Sherlock trailed John's face with his index finger and let out a content sigh. "You're beautiful when you sleep. I've never told you but I've wanted to for the longest time."

John grinned. "And how many times have you watched me sleep?" He chuckled with his question.

"Two-hundred thirty-eight times. You're quite the heavy sleeper, but towards the end of your slumber you tend to get restless and breathy. I'm assuming from night terrors?"

John swallowed and nodded his head somberly. "Yeah. They got much worse after you left."

"You've had four since I've returned. I could hear you through the vent." There is a stoic and painful silence between the two of them. John's breath became short and anxious, and Sherlock wrapped a hand around John's and made their fingers become entwined. "I'm so sorry, John. For everything. For bringing you into this mess. For lying. For breaking your heart. For betraying you. I'm sorry." Sherlock's voice broke at the last bit. Betrayal. John had never seen what he had done to be betrayal, though it made sense. He completely disregarded his trust and lied for him for two years. He let him grieve, self-medicate, cry, weep, scream, break apart, crash and burn. Yes, betrayal. That sounded about right.

"It's okay, Sherl-" John began.

"I'm sorry about Mary. I'm so sorry, for all of it, I mean it. I'm sorry I left and you met her and she was taken away from you and…" Sherlock gulped and pressed on, "I'm sorry you moved on and I thought you would wait for me. I'm sorry that I missed you, John."

John's mouth pressed together in a thin line, his breath hitching. He opened a mouth to reply but was taken aback by Sherlock's candid confession. The effort and courage it must have taken to actually say such a thing, and coming from Sherlock. "It's okay, Sherlock. It is." He planted a soft kiss on his raven locks and pulled him closer to his chest. "It's okay. Some of those things you couldn't help. Sometimes things happen. Sometimes people feel things and they can't explain it. You don't have to apologize for that."

Sherlock nodded and fidgeted under John's embrace, something on his mind, a question lingering on his tongue, a word he was working up the courage to say. "You know what the worst part is, John? About coming back from the dead?"

John blinked. "What?"

"Realizing that when you're gone, life doesn't stop. People have to continue living. They thrive. They don't really need you. You're unimportant, insignificant. I'm sure Lestrade solved his fair share of cases without me. He's been alright on his own, before I met him. Donovan and Anderson could work better. The Freak wasn't anywhere to be found. I wasn't distracting them. The world is fine without me, John."

"Sherlock-"

"It's true, John. I'm not important. I'm just a person who likes to show off. I've done nothing to help anyon-"

"Now you stop that!" John exclaimed a bit louder than he thought. "You're so very important, Sherlock. You are." John felt Sherlock shudder in his arms, the younger man breathing in small, yet noticeable sobs. "Let me tell you. Four years ago, in Afghanistan, do you know what happened to me? Well, of course you do. I got shot in the shoulder. I was working on a patient when I got hit. Three other people were injured. One was killed. I wasn't worried about myself, I was worried about that soldier whose leg had been blown to smithereens." He whimpered a bit, remembering the gruesome scene.

"I was shot and I went down hard. The pain was… unfathomable. I thought I was going to die, Sherlock. I heard the other doctors calling out for someone to help and I thought to myself 'well, at least if I die, that patient will be alright.' And then I became so scared because I thought for a second that if I was gone, nothing would change. That nothing I did would ever matter because I was gone. Patients would still get saved, and I would be replaced, and I would be forgotten. But that's not true. I saved people. A lot of people. And I was able to save people when I met you. Mostly myself, but you get the idea. And you've saved people. You've helped countless lives, Sherlock, with your cases. You've kept killers from killing more people, and you've saved me too."

Sherlock smiled and chortled, and left another kiss on John's neck. "I'm sorry."

"You don't have to keep apologizing, really."

"I'm so- I mean. Okay."

John shifted his weight and finally freed himself from Sherlock, who let a disappointed groan escape his throat. The both of them were still very naked and, quite frankly, stank to high Heaven. Sex with Sherlock was a rigorous activity; despite his gross inexperience, Sherlock's enthusiasm left John worn out and craving more at the same time. John discovered just how talented Sherlock was with that tongue and Sherlock realized just how flexible he was. It was quite interesting to say the least. They both went through three more rounds throughout the night before passing out in each other's arms. Their stomachs and hands were still considerably sticky, and a shower was most needed. "I'm gonna go freshen up." Sherlock sat up and caught a glimpse of John's cock, and was almost surprised that he was able to take all of him the previous night. "Care to join me?"

Sherlock's face beamed as he hopped from the bed and followed him into the bathroom and stood awkwardly behind him while he turned on the water faucet. John pulled the handle at the top of the spigot and watched as the warm, steaming liquid sprinkled down from the shower head. He stepped inside and pulled Sherlock in with him, and promptly pinned him against the cold tile. He reached up and kissed him softly, gently, and wrapped a tender hand around Sherlock's awakening cock. He returned the whimper that came with his tongue and prodded open his mouth, massaging the inside of his gums and teeth. John pulled back for a moment, but only to apply some of the squeeze soap to his hands and stroke Sherlock's penis again, and returned to kissing him lovingly.

"John…" Sherlock hissed as his partner moved from his lips to his slender and magnificent neck, biting down hard on the tender area. Sherlock let out a desperate moan, clenching his teeth and taking a fistful of John's soaked flaxen hair in his grasp. John circled a tongue around Sherlock's nipple, his cock still in hand. "J-john, please," Sherlock whimpered. John dropped to his knees as the scalding water fell on the both of them, all the while sliding his fingers against Sherlock's thighs, making him buck and squirm at the touch. "Please, John," Sherlock beseeched.

"Shut the hell up," John said in his most sensuous voice, "so I can suck your dick."

Sherlock bit his lip in silence and tried to keep a gasp from sounding as John flicked his tongue across the tip of his cock, and then took the whole of it completely in his practiced mouth, and Sherlock's mind went completely blank. Amidst all the sensation, the stimulation, the wonderful feelings of lust and pleasure John inflicted upon him, he utterly failed to form a complete thought on anything other than how hot John looked with his dick in his mouth, sucking and bobbing against the hardened flesh. John took Sherlock's member until he felt it pulsing at the back of throat, and his nose was buried in the few hairs at Sherlock's pubis. "Nhh, yes," Sherlock wheezed as John jutted his tongue out and reached his hardened balls, the musky taste satisfying.

By now Sherlock had his hands on John's shoulders for support, because he was sincerely worried that his legs would give out from the stimulation of John's warm and wet maw. He could feel John grinning against him as he reached between Sherlock's legs and slipped a finger between his cheeks, prodding his entrance, teasing the puckered hole. He hissed when it finally made its way inside, the tightness of its former state waning. A second finger entered, and Sherlock refrained from cursing and digging his nails into John's tender, wet skin. Meanwhile, John took hold of his own penis and began jerking and tugging vehemently.

John was sliding his index and middle fingers in and out of Sherlock slowly, painfully slowly, torturously slowly, but that was only because he knew Sherlock loved it. He curled his digits inward and Sherlock cried out as his prostate was prodded. It was all too much, he couldn't hold himself back; he was tipping over the edge, until…

"God!" Sherlock wailed as he filled John's hollowed cheeks with semen. John pulled away and let out a soul-soothing gasp as Sherlock sprayed his fluid on John's face, his orgasm running its course. John gave himself a few more powerful tugs and was soon climaxing as well, Sherlock's name on his lips. Sherlock pulled John up and kissed him again, this time with more compassion and energy than ever before, their faces wet with the water from the faucet and the sweat they accumulated. John smiled on Sherlock's mouth and chuckled. "I guess we can shower properly, now," he chortled.

They were completely bathed and fully dressed by 8:15. Breakfast was on the table by 8:40. Bacon, eggs, and French toast, because John was feeling a bit ambitious today. Sherlock had received (and ignored) a text from Mycroft regarding a special case of moderate importance by 8:50. By 9:10, John had opened his laptop and clicked on Safari, and opened the page to his blog. Sherlock peered up from the newspaper and raised his eyebrows questioningly. "Updating the blog?" John rubbed his chin and stared at the screen as the cursor hovered over the "Submit new blog entry" icon.

"Debating it."

Sherlock finished the last bit of his coffee and folded the paper up, then meandered to John's side and rested his head on his good shoulder, peering at the long untouched website. "You should. It'll give your faithful readers something to do."

"Faithful isn't what I'd use to describe most of them," John replied dejectedly.

"Oh, and what would you use?"

"Spiteful."

Sherlock frowned.

"After the last entry, I got so many comments calling you a liar, calling me a sucker and a loser that I had to disable the feature, and I hid several of them."

Sherlock huffed and stood straight up. "Show them to me," he said in a more demanding voice than he intended. "I want to see."

"Sherlock, no, it's pointless to read them now, and they're ridiculous."

"Show them now," he replied, almost bellowing. "Please. I just want to see them, please?"

John released a defeated sigh and went to the area of his blog labeled "Settings." He scrolled to the bottom and clicked the button that read "Un-hide all comments," and handed the computer to Sherlock. He skimmed through the remarks, a few of them encouraging and hopeful, with a few "I believe in Sherlock" comments and the like, and finally got down to the rude and hurtful ones. 584 comments in total. 149 were overall positive. 78 asked how he was doing since the incident. 22 were advertising spammers with deals on hair product and local singles looking for a good time. The rest of them, 335 in total were some of the most vile and scathing words he had ever read, and about 80 percent of them were about him and his fraudulent intellect. "What the hell is this?" he snarled, the comments almost leaving a foul taste in his mouth.

"See, I told you they were ridiculous."

He read through each and every one of them and scowled, and even laughed rather sarcastically at a few of them. He finally got to the bottom of the thread, and Sherlock's eyes were golf balls at the final comment, presumably the one that caused John to leave the blog behind and never return. He couldn't believe someone could even think such a thing.

Sherlock deserved to die and so do you, you fucking faggot. Why don't you do the world a favor and drink bleach, take some pills, drive off a bridge, anything. Just go kill yourself like he did. He seemed to have the right idea. –Anonymous 20 July 21:25

"John, I-"

"It's fine, Sherlock, really."

"No, not really, John! Give me a few minutes, I can have someone on the line who can hack this, get this man's IP address, find where he lives, then maybe I coul-"

"Sherlock, enough! There's nothing you can do, okay, he's just some prick on the internet, he doesn't matter. The only thing that matters is that you're here, with me."

"But that's not completely true."

John looked up at Sherlock, whose eyes were decisive and analyzing, and scowled. "And how is that?"

"This morning, John. Before you woke up, you were dreaming. I thought you were thinking of me but my name was not the one you were mumbling." John's face softened. "You said… you said her name over and over again, John. And you were whimpering. And you grabbed me and pulled me in closer and still, you said her name."

"Mary, Sherlock. That's her name. Mary.

Sherlock gulped anxiously and continued. "You said 'Mary' over and over, John. I'm obviously not all that matters to you."

John scoffed in exasperation. "Jesus Christ, Sherlock, forgive me for trying to move on with my fucking life! Pardon me for meeting someone and falling in love with her, and marrying her, and losing her to cancer. I'm a goddamned widower! Please, forgive me for not wanting to think of you every fucking second of the day!"

Sherlock's brow distorts. His eyes are filled with pain. "I thought of you, John. Every second."

"Yes, well you knew that I was alive. You knew that Mycroft was keeping an eye on me. I, however, was not blessed with that luxury. I couldn't keep focusing on you, Sherlock, I had to live my life and move forward, not worry about someone I assumed I would never see again. I wouldn't have to worry about someone who made me watch them jump off a fucking 5-story building."

There is a long silence until Sherlock asks what might be the dumbest question he could ever ask John. "Do you miss her more than you missed me?"

John is awed, almost star-struck by the stupidity that Sherlock sometimes spouts. His lack of knowledge of the Solar system was one thing, and he let the whole bit with Sarah during the Chinese circus slide, but this one really took the cake. "What? Are you seriously asking me that?" He laughed a dry and humorless laugh before standing up and going to the kitchen and preoccupying himself with the dirty dishes from the morning's meal. Sherlock sighed and languidly flopped on the couch when his phone started to buzz. He was genuinely surprised to see the number that flashed on the screen had, in fact, belonged to Lestrade.

"Lestrade? What is it," he said, his voice edging over into the realm of anticipation.

"Got a case you might be interested in," he began. "Over in Loughton. If I text you the address, can you get here?"

"It depends, Lestrade. Will I be greeted with your unruly employees?"

"Oh please, Sherlock, Anderson and Donovan are on their own cases at the moment. But I can't promise you won't be met with a few, ahem. Resentful looks."

Sherlock cleared his throat and glanced at John, who was still in the kitchen, scrubbing away the grime and residue from the food that morning. "What have you got?"

"Woman, early twenties. Eyes sewn shut, bruises all over and wearing nothing but a bra and a pair of heels. There's been two others like this one."

Sherlock grinned and stood to his feet. "I'll be there in 20 minutes," he practically squeaked. He clicked the button on his phone that ended the call and slipped into his coat, which hung near the door. He glided giddily into the kitchen planted a kiss on John's cheek. "Come on, John, we've got a case!"

"No, you've got a case," John said, not looking up from the task at hand. Sherlock apprehensively backed away from him and frowned. His stomach felt suddenly uneasy and his chest seemed tight and low. That hurt. That hurt bitterly.

"John, I'm sorry. I'm sorry for being so… foolish."

"Foolish is right." John wiped the last plate and stuck it in the drainer before turning around and sitting back down. He closed the Safari browser and closed his laptop again. He glanced up and saw Sherlock's pleading, defeated eyes and groaned. "Don't make that face, you dick."

"Please, John. I could use your medical knowledge. I need you, please." His face lit a bit as John lifted his hands and stood up to grab his coat. He followed him down the stairs and smiled as John stood by, waiting for him to hail a cab. This… this felt nice. The normality. The ritualistic pattern to which they were so accustomed was finally being brought back again. Everything was as it should be.

The two of them rode in near-silence. They stared out of their respective windows and watched the sights pass them by in their fleeting manner. Sherlock looked over at John, who seemed to be lost in thought. He reached out a hand to him and grazed it lightly, if only for a split second, before the doctor pulled away and stuffed his hand into his jacket pocket.

Sherlock's face seemed to break into thousands of pieces, the feeling from a few minutes ago quickly returning. He fashioned his hands together and fidgeted mercilessly, to the point where John had to ask him to stop.

They rode the remainder of the trip in utter silence.

They arrived on the crime scene a few moments later and were greeted by Lestrade, who was half-occupied with shouting out instructions to his team. Sherlock marched across the lot and lifted the police tape and proceeded under. John was close behind and expected for Sherlock to hold the plastic rope for him, but was a bit startled when Sherlock advanced ahead and didn't wait for him. He stopped in his tracks, and Sherlock made a quick double-take behind him. "Well come on!'" he yelled, and John obeyed.

"Ah, Sherlock. It's been a while. It's good to have you back," said Lestrade, his voice light and almost chipper. Sherlock could see that wasn't entirely true, what with the looks from the crew, and the whispers they exchanged, even pointing and mocking him.

"Please, Lestrade, refrain from formalities, they don't suit you," he returned coldly.

"Right. Well, then, here she is. Dead for about 9 hours. So, uh, do your thing."

Sherlock crouched down and examined the body, his eyes skimming over her lips and neck and down to her waist and buttocks, and down to her feet. He stood to his feet and grinned, ready to show off. "Anything?" Lestrade inquired, curious as to what he had to say about the matter.

"Of course. This woman works in an office, probably a receptionist, but more likely she is a secretary judging by the state of her wrists. She is a hard worker and doesn't own any type of ergonomic material. I'd say in the early stages of Carpal tunnel, she should probably take care of that…"

"She's dead," Lestrade muttered under his breath.

"A personal Secretary from the looks of it, Fire engine red nail enamel… If she worked in a cubicle she'd have chewed or clipped nails at most, from this we can derive that she spends time getting them manicured. Smell that? A particularly sweet scent, must be her perfume, somewhat sensual; she probably likes someone. She wears it to work, has to be someone in this office, her employer maybe, she's a personal secretary so she doesn't intermingle with the others as much, she is trying to impress him, but why? Succeeded by the look of those earrings. Rather tacky, obviously a gift from a male, probably a boyfriend, it holds some sentimental value otherwise she'd have thrown them out long ago."

"How can you tell?"

"Look at her clothes. She pays too much attention to her appearance to overlook such a detail. Tonight she went to see him."

"Him who?"

"Her employer."

"Ho-"

"Her lips. Her lipstick's smeared meaning she didn't have time to reapply it, also an indication that she was recently kissing someone. Judging by the light bruising on her waist and back I'd say the evening didn't go too well."

"Or well enough."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"What about the bruises on her neck?"

"Her employer had a bit of an asphyxiation fetish. These are controlled wounds, inflicted carefully and cautiously, without meaning to cause much harm; strangulation is unlikely."

"And the eyes, what the hell's that all about?"

"I'm not sure yet, but I'm thinking it's part of strange kink the killer inflicted on her."

"So, do we get the employer and call it a day?" Lestrade asked, crossing his arms.

"Oh, don't be a dolt, Lestrade, do you really think that he's the killer?"

"Well excuse me for thinking clearly and weighing the outcomes of the deductions you give to me. We still can't rule him out as a suspect. And I'm not a dolt."

Sherlock growled under his breath and spoke. "Her employer enjoyed slapping and choking her in bed. No, scratch that. She enjoyed it and asked him to do it to her. He doesn't seem like the kind of man who would damage his perfect little doll, but liked her enough to only do it if she really wanted it." Sherlock glanced up at John, who kept his distance, and stared off into space for the most part. His brow furrowed and he looked back at Lestrade, who was promptly expecting an explanation. "Last night, after the affair she went… somewhere, gah! She went somewhere and after that, she was killed, and brought back here to be dumped."

Lestrade sighed and rubbed his eyes tiredly. Only Sherlock could drain his energy so quickly, this early. "Well, I wanna know about the eyes. Possibly establish a potential pattern."

"John!" Sherlock shouted, and John hastily came to his side.

"What do you need?" He asked, panting a little after covering a distance so quickly.

"This type of thread, it's meant for stitches; what kind is it?" Sherlock asked, not looking up from the corpse.

John glanced at the body and nodded. "Yeah, it's a common suture, although there isn't any sign of a previous injury that needed repair. It's surprisingly clean."

"Answer the question," Sherlock quietly demanded.

John gulped and proceeded to speak. "It looks like nylon to me. Any sort of first-aid kit would have these. It's pretty easy to get your hands on some."

Sherlock nodded and continued to observe the body, with John barely hovering behind his shoulder. Lestrade walked away to converge with another officer, who had seen something strange in the distance. The two of them were only a foot or two away from each other, yet felt words apart. After a minute Sherlock grumbled and turned his head slightly, his friend only visible from the corner of his eye. "You can go now." John glowered, his lip twitching with a hurt he hadn't quite experienced since his little spat in Baskerville with him those years ago. He turned on his heel and pivoted toward the other direction and took a few steps before stopping. He balled his hands into fists and let out a nice huff before turning around and standing behind him.

"Okay, Sherlock, I'm sorry, alright?" he said in hushed tones. "I'm sorry. I realize that you were suffering right along with me, alright? I know that you're a bit vulnerable, what with last night, and this morning…" he looked away, guilt painting his face. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean that. That was not good, what I said. Or rather, how I said it. I did think about you, Sherlock. Every day. Even on my bloody wedding day, Sherlock, I was thinking and talking about you."

Sherlock clipped shut his magnifying glass and placed it in his pocket. He stood again and towered over the doctor, and could see the lamenting earnest in his eyes. "John, it's fine, alright? Don't worry about it-"

"JOHN!" Came a desperate cry from behind them. Lestrade was bolting towards the two of them at full speed, and an impressive one for the 42-year old.

John turned around, baffled, and called back to him. "Greg?" he replied, and found himself on the ground underneath of him. "Greg? What's going on?" He asked, and was horrified when he felt the warmth on his hand from Greg's blood. "Greg!" He screamed as Lestrade lay on him, bleeding profusely from his stomach. Sherlock stepped back, stunned from the sight before him. John crawled from underneath him and placed two fingers to Greg's neck. His pulse was weak, but still there. "Alright Greg, you're gonna be okay. You're gonna be alright." John looked up at Sherlock, who was a deer in the headlights, completely frozen. "Don't just fucking stand there, Sherlock! Call somebody! Get an ambulance!" John exclaimed, and Sherlock complied with the hurried demand.

Greg looked up at John, who was crouching over him and reassuring him that he'd be fine, that he would make it through this. He began to fade out of consciousness, and only felt the hands prod and poke at him. Soon his eyes could only see black.

Sherlock paced back and forth in the waiting hall impatiently at the hospital. The pasty colors and the sterile stench made him exhaustingly nervous, and jittery at that. John sat in the semi-comfortable chair with his head in his hands, his elbows resting on his knees, his leg bouncing with anxiety. He didn't have to look up to know that Sherlock was walking around, angrily steepling his hands and muttering to himself. "Sherlock," he said rigidly, yet calmly. Sherlock either was ignoring him or simply wasn't listening, though the two were practically one and in the same whenever it pertained to him. "Sherlock, you have to sit down."

"Mycroft was wrong, John. Mycroft was completely and utterly wrong, and Moran is alive."

"I'm sorry, who- what are you talking about?"

"Sebastian Moran, Moriarty's right hand man. He was ordered to kill you because I was alive, and now he's going to be after you, John. You're not safe around me."

John shook his head groaned. "Okay, Sherlock, you need to calm down, alright. He's not what we have to worry about right now-"

"Oh, of course he is! He's the man trying to kill you because I'm alive! Damn it, I knew I should have double-checked with Mycroft, it doesn't take much to get past him, first The Woman, and now this!"

John paused, then looked up at Sherlock, dumbfounded. "The Woman? Irene Adler? What does she have to do with this?"

"We need to think quickly, John, before something like this happens again. We need to regroup, find a safe place for you, away from any harm, away from me."

"Ah, listen to yourself, Sherlock! It's like you've gone mad! We need to worry about Lestrade right now. He's the one in jeopardy. He's the one who needs us."

"I am worrying about him, John- the man took a bullet for you! I should be the one on that operating table, not him! I was too busy being an arse to notice anything, God!"

John quickly stood and was soon centimeters away from Sherlock's face, determination etched into his eyelids and brow. "You listen to me, Sherlock. You cannot blame yourself for this. You cannot allow yourself to take the heat for any of it. You blame Moriarty, or Moran, but not yourself, do you hear me? Now, right now, what we need to focus on Greg, alright? He's the one that needs us right now. So all we can do is hope that he'll make it through this, and all we can do is wait. We will get through this, just like we got through… all of that," he whispered, gesturing vaguely behind him. "So sit down next to me, and wait with me, Sherlock. Alright?"

Sherlock kept his eyes shut and breathed deeply, and to John, it almost looked like he was trying to completely stop thinking. He was failing. John promptly grabbed Sherlock by the jaw and pressed firmly his lips against his, and felt Sherlock practically fall limp under his touch. Sherlock returned the kiss shyly before John pulled away and smirked. Sherlock lips curled into a faint smile as he spoke breathily. "You're the only one who can make me do that."

The somewhat poignant moment was interrupted by a surgeon approaching them. "Hi, Mr. Holmes, Doctor Watson. I'm Dr. Allen," she said, offering a hand out to them. They both shook her hand and finally backed away from each other enough to seem platonic again. "I operated on Officer Lestrade."

"Detective Inspector," Sherlock snarled quietly.

"How is he?" John asked, refusing to acknowledge Sherlock's rudeness.

"He's stable. He required a blood transfusion; the bullet grazed his liver and he suffered from a lot of blood loss, but in the end he should make a full recovery."

"Can we see him?" Sherlock asked, surprising John. "I need to see him."

"He's just come from surgery; he needs time to rest."

"I just want to say something to him, please," Sherlock pleaded.

"Dr. Allen, I promise he'll be very brief, and won't cause any trouble. Please?" John beseeched.

The surgeon sighed and nodded her head. "This way," she replied, and the taller men followed her. They were led to a room in the ICU, dark and cold, eerie and lifeless. John waited outside as Sherlock stepped in, alarmed by the unconscious state of his friend, wires and tubes poking in and out of him, and a catheter leading out from under the white blanket and dangling off the side of the bed. The room was silent, save for the beeping that indicated that Lestrade was, in fact, still alive. He looked into his face, still and peaceful, and obscured by an oxygen mask, and sighed heavily.

"I'm sorry," he started. "I'm sorry for becoming such a burden. I'm the one that caused this, all of it. I… I shouldn't have come back. This world was safer without me walking around. You had so much less to worry about when I wasn't causing all of these problems for you." Sherlock bit his lip and sniffled a bit, and spoke on. "And, thank you for taking care of John. I know you did. Thank you." He was almost disappointed when Lestrade failed to reply, and exhaled heavily as he walked away. He crossed the threshold and saw John waiting outside patiently.

"You alright?" He asked.

"Yes John," he replied as the two of them walked down the hallway. "Never better."


	10. Shadow of Doubt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock tries his best to discuss everything with John, but John's denial of the situation doesn't help any of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this has taken so long to upload. AUGHSSDGAHDS. I'll be updating faster from now on, hopefully. Otakon's coming up, but after that I'll be mostly free.
> 
> Enjoy, and please comment!

It’s an early morning, even earlier so than usual. He’s up at the crack of dawn, rubbing his eyes tiredly as thin lines of deep crimson sunlight peer into the bedroom between the undrawn blinds. He lets a hand tangle through his unkempt blonde hair, and scratches an imaginary itch on his chest. He extends and arm out and yawns fully and languidly, the sound stretching from his mouth and into the empty air. He regains composure and swings his leg over the bed, groaning at the sudden movement. He glances at his clock and notes the time. 7:02 AM. The days are gradually getting longer, he notes. It’s February 24th. The temperature is 2 degrees. A whole 3 up from yesterday, he says to himself. He hops out of bed and makes his way to his bathroom, his eyes barely adjusting to the green tinted light above the mirror.

He let an unclean hand run through his strawberry blonde hair, feeling every dirty patch and clump with precision. The other smoothed across his stubble, and invaded his lips and mouth, and fell from his face and landed on the porcelain sink below him. He murmured as he removed his boxers and walked to the bathtub, where he twisted the faucet and pulled the nozzle so that the shower head activated, and water rained from above him. It was scalding hot, unmercifully so. Just how Jim liked it. He never changed the temperature, even after he died, and he had no intention of doing so.  
He stood idly as the boiling water poured onto him; he didn’t wash or lather or scrub, he just stood there languidly, seemingly lost in thought. Several minutes passed and he left the tiled cubicle, wrapping a towel around his drenched waist. He meandered back to the bed and gazed over at the leather bag in the corner of the room. He sighed.  
Today would be the day.  
Approximately an hour went by and his gun was already assembled into place and positioned on the table next to the windowsill. He adjusted the bipod and watched outside as the cab pulled up to the scene. Ah, there he was, Sherlock Holmes, alive and kicking, and his pet doctor, John Watson. Look at them, look at their domestic bliss. How lovely would it be to put a bullet between the squirt’s eyes, make him fall over dead, and let the detective watch in horror. How lovely would it be.

The two of them were following that nuisance of a cop towards the body that had been placed there the previous night. It’s amazing what people will do for money, if they really need it. Sherlock knelt over it and examined thoroughly, while John stood by, completely prone and vulnerable. Now would be perfect, but. No. He could wait just a little bit longer.  
In the time that he waited, he situated a cigarette between his tired lips and lit it with a lighter he had found on the street the other day. He knew what people said about white lighters. Bad luck, apparently. Superstition was for the imbecilic. He pulled in slowly and tasted the bittersweet smoke and let it fill his lungs and linger for a moment, then breathed out through his nostrils and let the silver tendrils flow from him. Now. Now was a good time.

He adjusted himself so that his eye was aligned with the lens and turned on the laser pointer. Before, Jim asked him to use it to intimidate them, their victims, but in the months since his death, his health had declined, and with it, his eyesight as well. The laser was a must now. He positioned the rifle in line with John’s chest and squinted into the lens. He had a finger gently teasing the trigger, ready to be pulled and put into motion. He exhaled and released a billow of silver smoke. “Die,” he breathed.

Fuck. Where’d the cop come from? How was he so fast? Now he’s on the ground, and John’s staring like a moron at the poor sap. Sherlock hasn’t even noticed. What has he done? The mission has been compromised. He’s failed. Jim would be so disappointed.

Goddammit.

****************

To say that Lestrade was surprised to see Sherlock sitting at the foot of his bed was a bit of an understatement, considering the fact that the case was reaching a paramount of fun for the detective, since he had discovered the existence of the victim’s sister (a fact which was learned only seconds before the assault had occurred), and the fact that he was horrible at showing affection to anyone really. Lestrade lifted his arm and groaned at the discomfort of the movement, the IV and pulse monitor restricting him. “Augh,” he moaned. “What happened?”

Sherlock lifted his head, and with a relieved sigh, spoke. “You were shot. Mild internal bleeding, but you’ll recover.”

“Oh. Well. I’ve only been shot twice in my career, and this is the second time. Hopefully it’s the last.” He grinned into a chuckle and began coughing. Sherlock offered a hand in assistance, but Greg gestured for him to leave him alone, a gesture Sherlock promptly ignored. He handed him a glass of water from the nightstand and handed it to him, and Greg downed the drink in only a few seconds. “So, did you make any progress on the case at all?”

“No,” Sherlock scowled, “I found one major clue after a bit of investigation, and then you were shot. In your absence Donovan and Anderson have barred me from reentering the crime scene. Miserable twits, they have no clue how important this is.”

“Don’t worry about it, I’ll let them know that you have my expressed permission to be there.”

“It doesn’t matter, they’ll still be difficult and unreasonable and stupid. Besides, they are not really what I’m concerned about.” He placed a hand on each knee and held his shoulders in a sturdy position, and dropped his head, before bringing it back up and gazing at Lestrade. “How are you doing?”

“Sherlock, I’m fine, really. This isn’t the first time this has happened, you know that.” He was sporting a faint grin, but the worried look on Sherlock’s face was enough to ebb the minute smile. “I’ll be okay. I’ve been shot and recovered before.” Sherlock looked away, sneering viciously at the wall. “Now, really Sherlock, what’s going on?”

Sherlock paused and cleared his throat, then spoke candidly. “There were several things I decided not to reveal to you, on the grounds that most of the actions I have taken have been terribly illegal, immoral, and, ironically, out of character for me. I’ve had to bring down criminal sects without the assistance of a team, and prevent any more damage to be done. I’ve done… things, Lestrade. Things I am not proud of, but things I do not regret, either. Well, just one. Nevertheless, I informed you that Richard Brook was a fake, which you proved by showing me the articles that confirmed my partial, if not complete innocence.”

“Yes, and Kitty Riley was fired from the newspaper she was working for.”

“Obviously.” Lestrade sneered. “Not long after that, I embarked on a mission to eliminate Moriarty’s web of hired criminals and thugs. I had, ahem. Checked off the entire list, and was short one man, Sebastian Moran, when my brother informed me of his death. Well, in recent days, however, I’ve discovered that to be completely false, and that he was out on the loose, prowling on us for days at a time. The only reason why John had stayed alive for so long was that I had faked my death, and since my return, John has been in grave danger.”

Lestrade nodded his head and rubbed the growing stubble on his chin. “Okay… so what are we supposed to do about this? I can put you in some sort of witness protection, though the process is lengthy and tedious.”

“No, you imbecile, Moran’s more cunning than that. He was Moriarty’s right hand man, do you think he’s some sort of idiot? We can’t get that past him.”

“Well, I’ll have to enlist some help from other forces to track him down, but the cost and effort wouldn’t be worth it if we don’t get any results. Look, Sherlock-”

“Lestrade, don’t you understand? You were injured in the place of John and it’s entirely my fault! You’re not as young as me, so you can’t handle many more injuries like this! I need to disappear, for your sake and John’s! He’s this close to being picked off by a sniper, and all we’ve done is sit idly by and let him run around like a loose cannon!” He was standing now, face flushed pinkly and hot, teeth baring in anxiety and rage. “I almost lost him once, and then a second time, and two days ago, Lestrade. I don’t think I could… experience that again. He’s become essential to my well-being. He’s more than a doctor, more than a friend. He’s some sort of… piece of me that I didn’t know I was missing until he was no longer by my side.” He clenched his fists and exhaled sharply. “You know as well as anyone that I don’t handle separation very well. This was simply unbearable, and I never want to go through anything like it again.”

Lestrade nearly gaped at Sherlock, taken aback in surprise yet again by his cathartic release. Sherlock caught his breath and slowly re-took his seat, shocked at his own confession. He lowered his head and stared at his hands, while Greg gawked at him from the bed, before a look of realization crossed his face. “Oh my God,” he hummed.  
Several seconds passed before Sherlock finally remembered to say “Shut up.”

Lestrade sat up in the bed, ignoring the brief twinge of pain and electing to focus on the new subject. “Do you fancy John, Sherlock?” No reply. Greg scoffed in disbelief and shook his head. “Sherlock. Did you and John… you know.” He gestured vaguely with his hands and emoted one of ambiguous implication.

“No, Lestrade, I don’t know,” Sherlock spat back with a leer.

“Okay, how about this. Did you sleep with John?”

Sherlock reddened and shuffled uncomfortably before flustering and sneering. “I will not dignify that question with a response.”

“Well, you just did, and all signs point to yes.”

Sherlock locked eyes with Greg, his resolve faltering under his hard and diligent gaze. “And what if they do?”

Greg let out a humorless laugh and his eyebrows lowered into an angry glare. “Oh wow, Sherlock, you were always one for good timing,” he snarled sarcastically. “You come back after a year and a half after making your friend watch your suicide, then right after his wife dies you decide to shag him. How brilliant of you, Holmes, really.” Sherlock grimaced and fell silent. “Do you love him? It’s obvious you like him enough, at least.”

He gulped. “I don’t love anybody.”

“Don’t lie to me. Or yourself. It’s obvious you’re sweet on him, if not the other way around. It’s been obvious for years, Sherlock. The way you looked at each other when you assumed I couldn’t see you. The way you’d ramble on about him to Molly, and to me, even as early as a few minutes ago. Hell, you’ve become more human than I’ve ever seen you in the better half of a decade. He’s changed you, Sherlock. He’s helped you a lot, there’s no way you can deny that. You’re grateful for him, and he’s grateful for you.”

“He’s proven most useful in many situations-”

“Don’t do that,” Greg interrupted. “Try to analyze and calculate everything, strip it apart and make it sound material. You know you love him. He’s become something of sentimental value to you. And I know you’ve said that it’s weakness in the past. But it’s not. It’s your motivation to keep him and yourself alive. That’s what it is.”

That was the thing about Sherlock and Greg; Sherlock was usually the one having the feelings without any sort of understanding of them, while Lestrade was the one who had to explain them to him. Sherlock found the resounding faith in his self-administered diagnosis to be a bit more unstable than he thought. A sociopath with incidents of emotional attachment? That couldn’t be right. Except he was Sherlock. And of course Sherlock knew himself better than anyone else could, so the idea of him being incorrect about something so personal and so engrained into his being was a terrifying one. But Lestrade knew him, and John did too. And perhaps the idea of changing on the behalf of people was not such a terrible one, if it meant that he himself would improve along with them.

“Hmmph. Well if you say so. I guess you’re not so much of an idiot after all.”

“Don’t ruin this.”

“Fair enough.”

Several moments of deep quiet passed between them, save for the liquid dripping from Lestrade’s line, and the heart monitor beeping and blipping steadily. Before long, John barged into the room, nearly breathless. “Sherlock,” he panted, “there you are.” 

“Yes, I’m here, John, where else could I have gone?”

“Do you really want me to answer that question? You could have let me know before you left, sent a text, Hell, even woken me up and I would have been fine. Leaving like that without telling me, especially under the circumstances, is enough to send me up a wall looking for you.”

Sherlock seemed somewhat regretful, but would never let it on. “You were asleep, and there was no point waking you when I would be back home within the hour. I didn’t want you leaving with me, or putting yourself in danger.”

“Well, that’s not going to happen. And really! Would it kill you to fill me in every once in a while?” John barked.

“Not sure, it hasn’t yet. Not completely anyway.”

Lestrade cleared his throat at the rather morbid joke and broke into the mild spat. “Ahem, Sherlock? You were telling me about the case?”

Sherlock sent a mild scowl John’s way before responding to Lestrade. “Our victim was wearing a pair of black stiletto heels, about 12 centimeters tall and almost 2 sizes too small. The pressure put on her toes and the balls of her feet was great, leaving marks on her dorsa and big toes. Remember, this is a woman who was trying to get her employer’s attention but could barely afford manicures or particularly ‘new’ clothing. The likelihood of her having any friends in or out of the workplace is slim to none, leaving the possibility that she borrowed the shoes from her sister for this night in particular.”

“Alright. So now what are you gonna do?” Lestrade asked.

“Interview the sister, of course.”

“We don’t even know the victim’s name, let alone her sister.”

“Kristina Winnington, age 23, secretary to advertising executive Larson Ross. Lives on the edge of London with Ashley Winnington.”

John raised an eyebrow and wondered how he acquired so much information, but shrugged it off to him being obnoxiously intrusive and show-offy, as usual. “And when will we do that?” John inquired.

“Tomorrow. I have other things to attend to at the moment. Obviously.” The three men looked up after the door to his room clicked, and a nurse walked in, seemingly horrified by the guests in the room.

“Ahh! Git out, git out! This man needs his rest, please! Come back later this afternoon, but not now!” She shrieked, gesturing for Sherlock and John to stand and disperse.

“Please, feel better, Greg,” John called as Sherlock pushed through the door. 

“Thanks, chap,” he replied. “Sherlock, let me know what you find.”

The two of them returned home and sat idly, the tension leaving an uncomfortable air around them. A few hours of telly and clacking on his laptop later, John, by some divine intervention, realized that they had not had a proper meal in two days, since the morning of the shooting. John inspected the fridge and was appalled at some of the things practically crawling and wriggling inside, the grey molds growing on a large portion of the food inside. “God,” John groaned. “This is disgusting. That’s it, I’m going to the market. I’ll be back in a bit.”

John headed for the exit and was halfway through the threshold when Sherlock leapt up and shut the door. He swiftly grabbed his jacket, barring him from leaving. “John, are you mad? You can’t go off gallivanting through the streets and traversing this place! Moran knows I’m alive and he’s determined to finish his mission, even though he’s got no reason to. And it’ll be getting dark very soon. Stay here, I’ll do the shopping, please.”

“Aha, no, Sherlock. That’s not happening. Last time you did the shopping you spent 20 quid on lima beans, chicken gizzards, and soda crackers. Never again.”

“Had you given me a list, I may have done a better job at such a mundane task.”

“I did give you a list, you twit. Forget it, I’ll go.”

“John, please, you’re in danger.”

“Sherlock, I was in Afghanistan. I’ve stared danger and death in the face. I think I’ll be able to handle this. Listen, I’m almost positive your brother has been combing the area for anyone suspicious or out of place. Mycroft’s good at this, Sherlock. Yes, he’s been mistaken but it takes a lot for him to be out of the loop. I’ll be back soon, okay?” John was released from the vice grip on his sleeve and headed down the stairs. He finally found the bottom step and smiled. Upon turning around, Sherlock was standing directly behind him, concerned, yet faithful. Sherlock leaned forward and shared a sweet, passion-filled kiss with John, and as brief as it was, it certainly improved the moods of both men. Their lips pulled apart, and with it, Shelock’s breath left him. “I’ll be fine.”

He continued down the hallway and Sherlock heard the door click after him. A minute or two passed by and he was still in awe of the fact that he let John leave the house, unattended, unprotected, and in grave danger. It took a great deal of energy and effort not to sprint down after him and drag him back into the flat, into his bedroom, under the covers… No, he thought to himself. He’s a grieving man, he just lost his wife. I’d only be making him worse. He ventured into the kitchen, fidgeting and rambling on to himself. Normally the silence was peaceful to the man, but given the circumstances, it left him with a nagging, unsettling feeling, one that he could not shake, even with the most thorough rationalization of the situation.

The supermarket is approximately 0.4 kilometers away. The trip to should take 4 minutes, 5 should a traffic light stand in the way. He generally takes 15 minutes to look around, and 10 to do any actual shopping. The wait for checkout on average is about 7 minutes, 3 minutes if he uses the chip and pin machine, and we all know how well he works with that. So, he should return in 40-42 minutes, if all goes well. If.

“Stop that!” he yelled, the words resonating in the air, against the walls; he stumbled out of the kitchen and into his own room. Why? There was nothing to be accomplished there; the bed was made, the dresser clean, the floor was swept. Of course it was, he hadn’t slept there in two days. True to his intrusive nature, Sherlock ventured upstairs to John’s vacant bedroom; its immaculate state left Sherlock feeling unsettled. The events of the previous nights had been completely eliminated; the sheets and clothes washed, the mattress flipped, the nightstand cleared. History, passion, sweat, saliva, had all been wiped clean.

Sherlock rummaged the dresser, for no reason he could think of at the moment. Boxers, socks, same old boring, normal items. Suddenly, something smooth; paper. A notebook. Worn, used over the years. Sherlock took to John’s bed and flipped through his writings. The first few documented his excitement for Iraq, the rush of being a soldier and helping the greater good. Oh, John. How naïve can you be? As he proceeded the text became less and less cheerful, deteriorating into depression, and eventually, into an abyss of despair from which John seemed incapable of escaping.

Sherlock noted a major gap in the last entry regarding the state of his tour to one written shortly after his death, so to speak. 

"Wow. I wish I knew how to collect my thoughts better. My mind is still very cloudy; I haven't come to terms with you being gone. I'm not sure I ever will. I'm certain that you'll make an appearance sometime later…"

His breathing became shallow as he read every word, as he turned each page and recounted the events of John’s life during his absence, and each sentence broke his heart. He had reached the last entry and noted that it was only written about two months prior. He paused momentarily, considering his flatmate’s privacy, and quickly disregarding it, continued on.

"I don’t know what else to do. I’ve talked to Lestrade, to Mycroft, hell, even to Harry. There is nothing I can do, and I refuse to accept this. My wife has very little time left to live. Why does this shit always happen to me? Why couldn’t I just live a normal, boring life? Why did I have to join the army and get shot and be sent to London? And Mike, telling me about… him. Convincing me to rent a flat with him and waste all this time. And then he goes and throws himself off of a building. And I meet someone who actually likes me and she gets taken away from me too. The worst thing about it is I can’t even fucking cry anymore. I’m in this permanent state of chaos, and I’m not sure if I’ll ever recover. I want to give up. I know it seems selfish and easy, but I don’t care. What is so bloody wrong with being selfish or doing things the easy way once in a while? I’m so tired of fighting when I keep getting knocked down.

I’m so pathetic. Patricia is getting sick of me. I’m always wasting both of our time. And my money. I’ve made no form of progress. Well, maybe that’s not entirely true. I love Mary, that’s true, but I can’t help but think she was just… a replacement. It hurts so much to think that. I married a woman to distract myself from a man I loved. He was my only real friend, beside Greg. Even with him there it’s still such a lonely feeling. How can one person have such an effect on me? On my goddamned wedding day the only thing I could think of was how happy I would be if he were with me, celebrating amidst all of this tragedy. I know he doesn-- didn’t really like big gatherings like this but I assume he would at least behave for the time being and be a good sport. 

Oh God, I miss Sherlock. The pain hasn’t gotten any better; it hasn’t gone away. A big chunk of me is missing and another one is about to be taken from me. I still can’t comprehend any of it. I think it’s because he thinks I doubted him… I never did, ever. I still don’t, as impossible as it seems. I called him a machine. A machine. And 20 minutes later, he was dead.

I never got tell him that he was my best friend, and that I loved him. How he’s crept into my thoughts in the shower, at work, at the pub, with Mary. How terrible is that? I’ve had impure thoughts about my dead friend. I’m disgusting.

The cancer is doing its job. Mary has a few weeks left. She takes insane amounts of morphine all the time. She’s thin as a rail and her hair is completely gone. She smiles for me and Robert but I know she just wants all of it to end. I do too. Her eyes look so dead, all the time. The shine I once saw has disappeared. I wish I could apologize enough for all of it. I’ve simply failed her as a husband, a supporter. I’m a failure, simple as that."

Sherlock didn’t notice the hot tears running down his cheek until some of them landed on the paper from which he was reading. He closed the book and sniffled, wiping the salty water from his face. He tentatively placed the notebook back into the dresser, along with John’s pants and socks and closed the drawer. Making sure everything was back in its proper state, he exited the room and closed the door behind him.

******************

John opened the door to the flat and hiked up the seventeen steps, a few bags in each of his hands, and walked straight to the kitchen. “Back,” he called out from the refrigerator, stocking the shelves with milk, eggs, bacon, and other common foods he hadn’t had the chance to enjoy in much too long. “I actually ran into Sarah in the checkout line, would you believe that?”

“John,” Sherlock interjected, while John talked through the interruption, as he often did.

“She still works at the clinic not far from here and I told her I was out of work, so she offered me a job. I’ll be joining her for a pint later in the week-”

“Don’t waste your time, John, now please, come here and sit down.”

John paused from shelving food to snap back at Sherlock. “You know, I’m trying to get back on my feet, Sherlock. Find work, rebuild a few bridges, make things a bit more normal, is that all right?”

“Yes that’s all fine and good, but we both know it’s beyond the realm of possibility. You’ve lost your best friend, your wife, and your sanity from my return, and that’s not something most people can come back from, and you’re a fool to think you are any different. Now please, John. Sit down. I’ve made tea.” John huffed and sat down in the armchair opposite Sherlock, whose legs were crossed and hands were pressed together in that signature pose he sported when gathering his thoughts. “We must… discuss our recent condition.”

John cleared his throat and scratched the back of his ear in that quirky “alright, I’m listening” sort of way and nodded. “Alright. Shoot.”

“Well then. You and I, three nights ago, engaged in sexual activity, as you well remember. I was the initiator, and you complied in agreement.” John cleared his throat again, this time attempting to clear his own tense feeling, and waved ahead, gesturing Sherlock to proceed. “The experience was… interesting.”

“You loved it,” John cut in.

“That’s irrelevant.” John chuckled. Sherlock scowled. “It’s come to my attention that you and I have stepped into new territory. Our relationship has evolved into something… more complex. We are sexual partners but still act as friends otherwise. Meanwhile, with your new status as a widower I’m concerned with your state of humanity. Forgive my naiveté, but given the fact that your wife has just passed, I assumed you would be racked with grief.” John shifted uneasily in his seat. “I’m confused. If you loved her enough to marry why are you-”

“Sherlock, can we not talk about this right now?” John jeered, anxiety racking him unmercifully.

“John, this is important,” Sherlock said right back. “I… you are a man who lost a great deal very quickly. Your life has been changed. Forgive me, I’m trying to…understand how you feel about all of this.”

“How do I feel? Hmm. Okay. I’ve wasted the last 2 years grieving over a person who was never dead, got married, became a widower, got my friend back, and fucked him. There, is that what you’d like to hear?” John gritted his teeth in silence.

“Sarcasm doesn’t suit you, John,” Sherlock spat back defensively.

“I wasn’t being sarcastic, Sherlock. Everything I just said actually happened. And yes, in a sense, everything is back to normal, somewhat, but that doesn’t change what I’ve gone through. Losing you was fucking devastating. And now you’re back. And I’m still bloody angry with you for lying to me, and I’m not quite ready to forgive you.”

“Yes, but you’re quite ready to have your way with me at any given moment, correct?”

“Fuck you. That’s… shut up.”

“Not that I mind. All I would like to know is… are we in a… relationship? As in, beyond the realm of friendship?”

“No, Sherlock. We’re friends. Nothing more.”

“Well, just ‘friends’ don’t do what we’ve done,” Sherlock retorted, standing up. “Why are you lying to yourself?”

“I’m not lying to myself!” John replied, coming to his feet as well. “Okay, I’ll admit it, I‘ve wanted you. I’ve wanted you for a long time, Sherlock, alright? I just. I didn’t know how to feel about it. I felt it went against everything I’m about.”

“And what of Harry? Do you hate her because of the fact that she’s a lesbian?”

“Oh, believe me, my sister’s liaisons with other women is the least of my problems with her. This is different. It’s… it’s me, this time. Believe me, Sherlock, were it not for the circumstances, I might have said something. It’s just you have the worst timing. I want to grieve, but part of me is so happy that you’re back, and still, so fucking angry you left in the first place, and. Well, I don’t know how to feel right now. I really don’t. I’m sorry.”

Sherlock nodded somberly and swallowed dryly. “John, I’m sorry. I’m sure you’re-”

“Sick of hearing that? Yes, Sherlock, I am.”

“Well, I want you to know that I mean it! I’ve been living through Hell just as much as you have been, and I came back because I could. I want to fix this!”

“Well, you can’t, Sherlock. There’s nothing you can do-” John’s breath was snatched from him as he found himself dragged across the room pinned up against the wall, Sherlock’s hands holding a vice grip on his arm and peering into him with his piercing blue eyes. The soldier was deactivated, not thinking to raise a hand in defense, his fight or flight not bothering to go off. Why was that?

Sherlock licked his lips, while John’s defenses remained neutral as his lips were invaded by Sherlock’s. The kiss was brief, yet powerful enough that John temporarily lost the ability to speak. “Tell me you don’t feel anything, John,” Sherlock begged. “Tell me after all this time, you are completely indifferent to me, to us.”

John huffed. “I never said th-”

“John, please, show me how you feel about me. Please show me that I’m not the only one who is constantly thinking about you-” He gasped, his hands swatted off and at his side, and suddenly his face was pressed hard against the wallpaper, his wrists secured behind his back and held together by John’s iron grip on them. He could practically feel his tendons screaming and resisting in pain, sweat building where John’s hand clenched his forearm. That would certainly bruise later. Sherlock attempted to turn his head, but another hand on his neck prevented him from moving any further. “John-”

“Shut up. You are so bloody selfish. And arrogant. Did you really think you were the only one who cared? The only one who wanted something? Do you know how much self-control I had to exert because I wanted to keep this friendship stable instead of messing it up by making it more than it already was?” His voice was shaky, uneven, and filled with raw, unabashed anger. “I loved you, Sherlock. I still do. But everything’s changed. Everything. Who I am, who you are, it’s all different. I can’t… act as if this is an easy step I can take. I’m not like you, Sherlock. Feeling things is just in my nature. I can’t turn my emotions off. As much as I wanted to, I never fucking could.”

Sherlock panted, the pain becoming unbearable. He made a sound, something akin to a whimper, and John relented his hold on the man. Bruises already were forming on Sherlock’s hands and wrists when he was finally released. He cautiously rubbed the purpling skin and winced, and glanced at John, who was once again sporting his black jacket. 

“I’m going out,” he growled without turning around.

“But, John-”

“Shut up and don’t tell me what to do. I’ll be back later.” He stormed outside, the door slamming shut and pounding the flat with a boom. It was only once he was on the sidewalk that he realized it was pouring, but his anger (and sheer pride) would not allow him to run back upstairs and grab an umbrella. No, he’d simply walk about London with his jacket turned up, back against the wind and water. 

Or at least he would have, if a black Audi had not pulled up less than 20 steps away from 221B. He looked over, heat in his eyes, enough to warm him on this cold February evening. The whirring buzz of the power windows interrupted the whine of the brake, and John was genuinely surprised to see Mycroft himself sitting in the backseat of the expensive car.

“Leave me alone, Mycroft. I’m going for a walk,” John barked as he walked off. The vehicle only followed swiftly behind, which only made his frustration grow. “Look, I can take care of myself, dammit. Piss off.”

“Before you walk off,” he purred in that sly tone John despised, “consider the fact that I have a hired hand to personally make sure this car does not drive away without you in the passenger seat. Also, this is not an issue of your safety, but that of someone rather close to you.”

John’s expression softened. “Sherlock?”

“I can assure you, everything will be explained momentarily. All I ask is for your cooperation.” The car had come to a complete stop, and a rather large man exited from the front passenger seat. He opened the door opposite Mycroft, and gestured for John to sit. “Now, John, if you please. Get in the car.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Patricia is John's therapist. I don't know if she has a name in the canon but oh well.


	11. Proposition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Mycroft meet together to discuss a new living plan. Sherlock and John do some investigating of their own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so fucking sorry this took as long as it did dear God. Hopefully I'll be able to take a real break and work on another project I've been putting off. I really hope you like this!

The building in question was very well decorated, wondrous and magnificent in design and vision. Not even the Diogenes Club could stand in the shadow of this place. It was only after a moment that John realized that this was Mycroft’s home, the style of this manor failing to resemble anything of humility or meekness. He was well-aware of the Holmes’ inability to exercise frugality, but was almost surprised at the magnitude of the residence. The brakes squeaked as the car finally pulled up to the front door, almost shrouded by a set of two large pillars and well-adorned hedges. Oh no, subtlety was not his strong suit.

Mycroft waited as his hired hand opened the door for him, while John let himself out on his own with no assistance. He could practically feel Mycroft make a slight grimace against his back, thinking to himself, “Let the man do his job.” Perhaps Mycroft would let someone open his doors for him, but not John. Not any time in his life, not with the limp, and certainly not now, not after that fight with Sherlock, not while he was such a foul mood. He offered a nod to the man as he re-entered the car and rode off across the driveway. John followed Mycroft into the giant structure and was awestruck.

“It’s like the freaking TARDIS,” he exclaimed, to which Mycroft raised an eyebrow. Of course he wouldn’t understand such a reference. “Never mind,” he scoffed, as he trailed behind the elder Holmes. Every so often John would glance up and see a rather ridiculously jeweled chandelier, something that rather befitted the Queen than his current handler. There was velveteen draping along the walls, rather expensive from the looks of it, but a little too stuffy for John's liking. Though one has to wonder who decorated the place, it simply seemed too expensive. 

He grinned when he noticed Anthea walking out from another, even more decorated room, nose buried in her new Blackberry. He gave a friendly wave in her direction only to be snubbed by her. John didn’t have any time to be offended before the two of them arrived at the study; the room was lined with mahogany or teak or something posh that John could not quite put his finger on, nor could ever afford in this lifetime. He wouldn’t ask.

Near the end of the room was a rather large desk, stacked with various files with chief government cases and business affairs with which Mycroft was responsible. “Please, take a seat,” he said, gesturing to the cushioned chair in front of said desk. John promptly made rest, while Mycroft sat in the spinning chair across from him. “Let’s hope this doesn’t take too long. I’m sure Sherlock is expecting you back shortly.”

A feeling of unease fell in the pit of John’s gut. Oh Lord. The car ride back to 221B was at least 30 minutes and Sherlock would be itching with separation anxiety. Leaving twice in one day would not help him in the least. “Yes, please,” John returned.

Mycroft fingered through a few a few Manila folders before finally finding the one he was looking for, and handed it to John. “Before you make a decision, please understand I’m only doing what is best for the two of you.”

John’s eyes went wide as he opened the folder and saw the immense amount of unmarked bills enveloped inside. “Jesus Christ,” he choked, the paper nearly crinkling in his hands. 

“My God, there’s got to be at least forty thousand pounds here!”

“Sixty thousand. I guess you were half right.” Mycroft rubbed his chin as John marveled at the sight.

“Wait,” he spoke. “What’s this for?”

“…Insurance,” Mycroft replied after too long a moment for John to remain comfortable.

“And what, pray tell, are you trying to ensure?”

“Yours and Sherlock’s safety.” John raised an eyebrow. “I have been made aware of the current situation and I take full responsibility. Had it not been for my prior mistake, you and Sherlock may not have let your guard down so quickly. Yes, Sebastian Moran is very much alive, and he has every intention of finishing his final mission from Moriarty. That mission is to kill you, Dr. John Watson. And he wants to do so while Sherlock is present. Those were the conditions of the original mission and he wishes to complete his task as correctly as possible.”

“Is that why he waited until the other day? Because Sherlock was right there with me?”

“My guess is that hee wants very much for you to feel the same pain he’s experienced these last few years. Loneliness. Despair. Agony. Confusion. But mostly, fury. Once he found out that Sherlock was still alive, he was very angry that the two of you were allowed to live, while he remained alone.”

John groaned and covered his mouth in shock, feeling suddenly queasy. “And all this money, are you paying me to spy again? I thought you didn’t like people like that.”

“I don’t. That money is for you, John. I’ll be giving some to Sherlock, too.”

“Why?”

Mycroft hesitated. “Because… there are many opportunities for the two of you in other places, other than London. Mumbai, Tibet, Brazil-”

“Mumbai, Brazil- what? What the hell are you talking about? You want me and Sherlock to leave the country? Flee? And what will happen to the people still here? They’re still in danger!”

“The other assassins in your vicinity were eliminated indefinitely. They pose no threat any longer. Sherlock worked for two years to eradicate Moriarty’s crime syndicate and Moran is the final living member. He will be much more difficult to take down than the others, and I’m afraid he is beyond the realm of my jurisdiction.”

“So there’s nothing you can do. You can’t kill him so you’ll just get us out of London so we can live at the expense of our normal lives? No, Mycroft. It’s been far too long for us to just run away. We need to finish what we started. You can either help us or stay out of it.” Several moments of stillness passed between the two of them, and although John was doing a very good job of staying calm, his demeanor was still threatening the still of the area. He handed back the folder to Mycroft, who calmly accepted. “Thanks Mycroft, but no thanks. We can do this, and it’s fine if you want to help, but this is not the way to do it. You need to trust us.”

Mycroft nodded somberly in agreement and stood. “Yes, well. I understand and apologize. But it’s come to my understanding that you’re sick of hearing that.”  
John gulped. “Yeah. I am. I think I’ll let myself out.” He got up from his chair and headed for the door. He hesitated, and turned to face Mycroft. “I know you’re trying. But right now, your absence might be the best thing for us. We can handle ourselves.” With a languid gesture he waved off, and turned back around. He could have cursed at the way the Holmes brothers had the tendency to speak right as he was leaving.

“He cares about you, John,” Mycroft called out. “He may even love you. In fact, I’m sure of it. But please understand that he’s just as terrified of all this as you are.”

“You have no idea,” John replied before leaving.

By the time the car arrived back home, it was absolutely pouring. John would have much preferred a light snowstorm to this. It was cold, that was certain, but not quite cold enough for a nice flurry in the evening. John rushed inside, dripping wet and barged into the upstairs flat. He kicked off his shoes and hung his jacket up behind him. “It’s raining cats and dogs out there,” he said. “It’s a complete and utter mess-” He stopped himself, raising an eyebrow when noticing the kitchen lamp was the only source of light in the room. It was difficult, but after a second he finally saw Sherlock on the couch, in a t-shirt and pajama bottoms and that signature blue dressing gown, knees to his chest and thumb between his canines. “Sherlock?”

“You were gone for almost two hours,” he said, his voice shaky. “I was this close to calling Lestrade,” he said, holding up his fingers in a pinching position.

“Sherlock, I’m sorry-”

“It’s fine, John, just. Just tell me where you’re going next time, alright?” 

“I… okay, Sherlock. I will. I’m sorry.” John looked on at Sherlock and was puzzled by him. He wasn’t in his normal, calm position, slouched over the couch like a sloth. He was compact, almost in a fetal position. He was curling his toes and tapping his feet on the couch, all the while rocking himself and looking off at the wall, his mind elsewhere. 

“Sherlock?” John walked over to him and knelt in front of him, thankful there was no hint of pain in his leg. 

“I can’t stand this anymore, John. Being separated from you is torturous. I don’t want this. I just want to…” Sherlock could hear John sigh, and relaxed when he felt a tender hand land across his leg. “John?” Sherlock was joined when John sat on the couch, his hand still resting on his thigh. “Can I… kiss you?”

John gulped. “Uhm… I’m… I’m not-”

“No, it’s fine. I’m sorry for asking,” Sherlock replied before John could finish.

“No, that’s not what I meant. I mean,” John said, fidgeting, “if I start, I’m not sure I’ll be able to stop myself.” John glanced at Sherlock’s wrists and noted the darkening mauves and yellows on his skin, the bruises from earlier arising, and felt a pang of guilt strike him. He didn’t realize he was gripping him so hard, hard enough to leave such a noticeable mark. He grabbed Sherlock’s arm gently and planted a soft kiss on the bruise. “I really, really enjoy being with you. Even when you drive me up the fucking wall, in the end I still…” 

Sherlock looked back at John in earnest, still facing the window. “I still really care about you. And yes, I miss Mary… I wish I didn’t have to lose her. But I can’t just mope around when I have this wonderful opportunity sitting right in front of me. I’m just… scared. I just don’t know how this will turn out.”

Sherlock smiled and shifted his body toward John, who was beginning to relax as Sherlock did. He raised his hand to John’s cheek, tenderly caressing his tired face. “Well, we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

Sherlock slowly brought John’s face to his, looking into those stellar silver eyes for a moment before closing his own and pressing his mouth to his flatmate’s, basking in the warmth and fondness of each other’s presence. John smiled through the kiss before coaxing Sherlock’s mouth open, and gently prodding his tongue inside. His heart leapt as Sherlock playfully nudged John’s tongue with his own, while giving playful nibbles to his lips. Though he initially feared the conditions of being romantically involved with Sherlock, John enjoyed the benefits greatly, mainly the moments in which he could breach the impenetrable hull that was Sherlock’s heart. He enjoyed seeing Sherlock’s vulnerability surface, and felt that he could connect with him on an even more personal level. He liked to see Sherlock be… human.

John sifted his fingers through Sherlock’s raven curls, grabbing generous fistfuls and noting how soft and bouncy his hair still was, and oh, how he missed those beautiful black locks, and oh, how grateful he was to finally touch them again. He maneuvered himself on top of Sherlock, never breaking their lips apart, while Sherlock let his long legs flop off the side and dragged his unwavering hands up John’s back, gripping his jumper with passionate desperation. 

He gasped when John began to move downward, leaving phantom kisses on his chin and jaw, and shuddered when he felt John’s tongue begin to make taunting swirls on his clavicle. John nipped at the sensitive skin, and felt Sherlock flinch uncomfortably under the touch. 

“John, just do it-” Sherlock jeered, before John interrupted him with a “shh” and a finger to his open mouth. The subtle, if not unnecessary gesture, shut him up. Before he would mark his prey, John would taste it, reveling in the delicious and succulent flavor of Sherlock’s flesh, taste his sweat, his beautiful porcelain skin. It was the same skin he saw painted with lukewarm blood, blank and lifeless, now overflowing with vigor and thirst. John needed to satisfy his appetite, after so much procrastinating and resisting, and his hunger had reached its peak. John had finally had enough and bit down hard on Sherlock’s ivory skin, the tissue already growing red with each suck and pinch. Sherlock let something in between a whimper and a growl, the pain something he could not ignore, but the sheer desire in John’s touch, the lustful groans he let out through the gnashing of teeth and flesh, were enough to turn Sherlock on even more than before.

John took note of the growing bulges pressing against his and Sherlock’s bellies, and resolved the issue by thrusting against the prone man, mouth still latched on to his now purpling collarbone. Through gritted teeth Sherlock hissed John’s name and humped upward against his hardening cock, the want and need inside of his growing at an exponential rate. John finally relented his bite and sat up, marveling at the sight of Sherlock’s bruised and blemished dermis.

“Look at that,” John breathed. “That might be the best hickey I’ve ever given, and it’s on you.” John’s voice was ragged with lust, and the sound of it sent a shot of arousal to the pit of Sherlock’s groin. John undressed, hastily yanking off his wooly sweater and undershirt and throwing them across the room the most theatrical fashion imaginable. He began to undo his belt but was interrupted by Sherlock putting a hand on his. 

“Wait,” he protested. “I want to do it. Please.” John grinned and moved his hands away from his pants. Sherlock had almost completely unfastened his belt until John stopped him again.

“Let’s go into the bedroom first,” he said, briefly cursing himself for prolonging this even further. The two of them rushed past the kitchen, through the hallway into Sherlock’s room and John crawled to the top of the bed. He sprawled out on his back, prone and ready, with a dark look behind his eyes. Sherlock was ready to join him when John raised a hand up. “Wait. Undress yourself first,” John cooed. His patience was something that he felt needed testing, and he did not mind doing so this way. Sherlock stood near the foot of the bed and let his blue robe fall over his shoulders to the hardwood floor. He removed his shirt, revealing his wiry frame, and showing John the full extent of that delicious love bite he inflicted. Various hues of red, violet, and yellow were gathering around the spot, and John could feel his cock pressing harder against his tighter-growing pants.

Sherlock let his pajama bottoms pool around his ankles stood gawkily in front of the bed, while John rubbed the bulge in his lap. With a hint of trepidation, Sherlock removed his underwear and left himself completely bare, with his erection finally coming into view. Sherlock’s heart was racing; he’d been naked in front of John before but this time was different somehow. He was invited to be completely unabashed with him, free and comfortable. The sheer thought only excited him more, and he was doing a poor job of hiding the fact.

“Take a seat,” John said seductively, gesturing for Sherlock to join him on the bed. His eyes were beckoning him, practically dragging him to his side by force. He meandered to the bed and prepared to make rest on John’s lap. He crawled toward John, splaying his hands over his thighs and hovering his face above John’s crotch. He slowly pulled the belt from the straps and in a swift motion, unbuttoned John’s pants. Before he could reach for the zipper, Sherlock felt John grab a generous amount of his locks, and yank him up to attention.

“No,” John practically barked. “Use your mouth.”

With an eager grin, Sherlock obeyed, taking the zipper between his teeth and dragging the metal down, freeing John’s cock a bit more from the pressure of the tight clothing. Using his hands, Sherlock tugged at John’s khakis and boxers and removed them, and tossed them to the side. He stared hungrily at John’s stiff member, craving the organ and practically panting like a mad cur in the blazing sun. He flicked his tongue over John’s glans, and the older man hissed and struggled to remain still. 

Wasting no time, in one go, Sherlock took the whole of John’s cock in his mouth, making the soldier cry out in ecstasy. John jerked up, trying to fuck Sherlock’s mouth, but was secured by two strong, pale hands forcing his hips into place. “Fffuuck,” John hissed, the head of his dick probing Sherlock’s throat. He was surprised he wasn’t gagging; perhaps he’d had more practice than he led on. Rigid and nimble fingers had Sherlock, and he put them to good use by cupping and fondling John’s unattended testicles, drawing another soft moan from him. He expertly deep-throated him, only pausing when he had completely swallowed John in order to gurgle and hum; he had a feeling John would like that.  
John let out a disappointed groan when Sherlock released him, but the hazed and lustful look in his eyes soon returned when he noticed how good he looked; Sherlock’s hair was a mess, his face red and flushed, and his lips and chin were drenched with his own mixture of precome and slobber. Before John could compliment him on his appearance, Sherlock pounced on him, diving straight for his mouth and giving him the most intense kiss he could give. John kissed back, biting and licking Sherlock’s lips and chin, tasting the remnants of his cock on him.

Sherlock grasped his and John’s organs, both of them in one hand, while with the other he held on to the headboard. He began stroking, slowly enough that John would last a bit longer, but at a pace quick enough to leave them both panting into each other’s necks. John cursed under his breath, then let out an almost embarrassingly loud moan as he emptied himself on his and Sherlock’s stomachs. Sherlock separated himself from John and finished on top of him, his semen spraying and reaching as far as John’s neck.  
Sherlock collapsed and wrapped his arms around John, ignoring the mess they had made. The two of them remained that way, with only sweat between them, exhausted and silent, save for their huffing and wheezing. John let a hand rest on Sherlock’s head and laughed weakly. “That… was just… fantastic,” John breathed, and he heard Sherlock chuckle in reply. And fantastic it was.

*****

John heard the knocking and the ringing. He wasn’t sure if it was part of a dream, or happening in real life. He had never been more tired in his life. Then again, the things John did in the previous night’s events would do that to most people. He glanced over at the clock, and nearly gasped when he saw that it was half-past nine. Sherlock had sprawled out next to him on the bed, facing the other direction, still as the dead.

“Sherlock?” John said with a whisper. Sherlock didn’t reply. “Sherlock, I know you’re awake. Get up and get the door.”

“Make me,” he mumbled back.

“Oh come on! Can you please?”

“It’s just Donovan, enough.”

“What??” John yelped in surprise.

“Lestrade said she was coming last night. I presume that’s her now.” Sherlock paused. He could hear Sally and Mrs. Hudson bantering on in that mundane way he never understood. “Well, she’ll be coming upstairs in a bit. I may as well greet her.”

John panicked. “Sherlock wait, let me-”

“No, John, I insist.” Sherlock stood, taking the sheet with him and wrapping it around his waist and heading for the door.

“Sherlock!” John howled.

Sherlock exited the bedroom, bare but a flimsy cloth wrapped about his hip, hair messy and eyes still drenched with sleep. Donovan opened the door to the flat and frankly, to say she was stunned may as well have been the understatement of the year. “O-oh,” she said, unable to keep from staring at the rather large bruises on Sherlock’s neck and wrists. “I see you had a guest over last night. Did you have fun, Freak?”

“Sherlock, please, put something on-” John said, before stopping dead in his tracks, realizing that Sally was in the house as he and Sherlock were emerging from the same room, naked. He felt his entire turn beet red as he scrambled back into the bedroom to fetch a pair of trousers. He returned, his lower half covered, to see Donovan sneering as usual.

“Well, well, well. I never expected for you and the Freak to hook up. Bravo.” She grinned as John wore his embarrassment on his sleeve, while Sherlock seemed indifferent to the matter.

“Sally, it’s not what it looks like-” John cried, only to have Sherlock cut him off.

“Really, John, there’s no need to lie.” Sherlock craned his neck proudly as he glared at Sally. “We’ve nothing to be ashamed of. It isn’t as if any of us are conspiring to foil another man’s marriage, now are we?”

“It’s not my fault she’s not getting him off,” she mumbled under her breath. “Anyway, can the two of you hurry? I need to take you to Ms. Winnington’s place to interview her.”

“What?” John asked. “Lestrade couldn’t trust us to go alone?” 

“Trust me, I don’t want to do this any more than you do. But he insisted that I take you myself. So uh, shower up, if you will.”

After a thirty-second spat, Sherlock finally let John shower first. Sherlock was notorious for ridiculously long showers, in which he would escape to his mind palace and let time slip away from him. His longest record was 94 minutes. John wondered how he didn’t notice that the hot water ran out.

After five minutes, John was already in clean clothes and ready for the day. Sherlock scurried into the bathroom after him and the sound of the faucet could be heard. John meandered back to the living room and offered a seat to Donovan, which she politely declined. The awkward feeling in the air was practically tangible; Donovan had caught them in the act. Well, the morning after the act, but that didn’t change anything.

“So, uh, how have you been?” John asked in a less-than-impressive manner. Small talk was never his forte.

“I’ve been fine,” she replied dryly. “I think the real question is how have you been? I mean, I spoke to Lestrade and he hinted that you may be involved with someone, but I would have never thought. You and the Freak? It’s almost laughable.”

“His name’s Sherlock, and I don’t appreciate you making rude comments when he’s not here to hear them,” John spat back.

“I’m sure he talks about me all the time.”

“You’d be surprised. He’s got much better things on his mind than petty quarrels with petty people.”

“Better things. Like you?”

John gulped. “Like the case. Our personal life is none of your business.”

“It is when one of the few useful people on the force is becoming more and more distracted.” John frowned. “Look, as much as I hate the Freak-” John shot a menacing glare at her and she corrected herself, “Holmes, I can’t deny the fact that he’s good at what he does. As annoying as he is, he’s certainly made my job a helluva lot easier.”

John couldn’t help but feel she was right. He did not hate Donovan, nor was he particularly fond of her. His first impression of her was not positive in the slightest, and part of that was Sherlock’s fault, but she failed to present herself as a particularly friendly person. However, John also realized that Sally was a lot of things, but stupid was certainly not one of them. She had a strong and generally correct intuition and way of thinking, and only spoke her mind if she was absolutely sure of something.

“I’m just saying, tread lightly. I don’t want to see you get hurt by him. Not again, at least.”

“I didn’t know you gave a damn.”

The two of them were interrupted by the sound of Sherlock barging out of the bathroom, clad in only a small towel. It was only then that John realized that Sherlock’s bathrobe was in the bedroom. “Don’t mind me,” he hummed, wandering into the room without closing the door behind him.

John looked back at Sally, who had “explain that, Watson” written all over her. He frowned. “Why do you hate him so much? I mean, yeah, I get why, but what started it?”  
Sally scoffed, and with an eye roll she answered him. “First impressions are very important, Dr. Watson. When Lestrade first brought him to the Yard, I did my best to treat him with respect. He wasn’t the most welcoming man I’d ever met. So I didn’t trust him. When someone who is an on and off addict, unregistered “detective” and is employed under the rug, you tend to be a bit skeptical around them. But part of it is knowing that if you’re civil to him, he might go back to that dark place. I never wanted for him to be unhealthy. I’m not that heartless, you know.” 

If John knew one thing, it was that he was a fairly good judge of character. Sally was more civil to him, more decent. She was decent because he was not as broken, as flawed as Sherlock. At least, from what she had seen.

“Wait. You say those things to Sherlock… because you want him to be better?”

“He likes the challenge.”

Sherlock soon emerged, dressed darkly and sleekly, in his trademark fashion. John smiled; Sherlock was unbearable most of the time but when he was on a case, he was distracted enough not to be upset. Even if he wasn’t feeling the most important thing, at least he would be preoccupied with the rush of a murder. “Well then. Let’s be off,” said he, and Sally nodded.

Sally and Sherlock sat comfortably in the front seats, while John remained in the rear passenger seat, cursing himself for dressing so heavily. Sally apparently hated the cold, and had her car’s heater on at full blast, while Sherlock sat stoically next to her, seemingly indifferent to the heat, and completely lost in thought. John thought it would be a good time to mention Mycroft, but stopped himself before bringing it up. Perhaps it could wait until the evening, or the next day, or any time besides this moment.

They arrived at the humble flat a few minutes later and Donovan parked with precision. Sherlock remembered the early days of their acquaintanceship; whenever Sally was forced by Lestrade to drive Sherlock anywhere, he would bemoan her nit-picking when it came to her parking job. An extra 15 seconds spent in the parking lot would be detrimental to the case, he insisted. Up the stairs the three of them went to Ms. Winnington’s apartment, and Sherlock could deduce already some of the circumstances surrounding her. “She hasn’t been home in almost three days,” he said.

“You start fast,” Donovan spat.

“She sweeps every evening before retiring to the flat, you can tell by the residual scraping marks left by the broom, and in the three days she’s been gone it’s rained twice. There are leaves and other foliage present, at least two day’s worth. She’s a woman of habit, but she can’t possibly practice as such if she’s not present to do so.”  
John smirked. Ah, Sherlock, of course he still had it. “Well, deduce if you need to while you’re inside, but please, Sherlock,” John begged.

“I know, I know, be nice.” Sherlock left four swift knocks on the door, and less than 15 seconds later, the door swung open, and a well-dressed young woman stood before the three of them. She had a pleasant air about her, one that any normal person would not have if their close sibling had been found dead a few days ago.

“Oh, it’s you. Please, come in,” she sang, and Sherlock, John, and Sally followed in behind her. The apartment was tidy, yet eccentric, free of any dust or grime, and frankly, smelled very nice, like vanilla and honey, due to the candles burning on the shelves. “Sit, please,” Ashley offered, pointing to the sofa against the wall.

“No thanks, I’ll stand,” Sherlock replied to her, earning a warning glare from John. She withdrew, and looked on nervously at Donovan, who rolled her eyes. Sherlock meandered around the flat, observing the knick-knacks and whatchamacallits on the walls and shelves. John cleared his throat and Sherlock finally turned back at them. “Yes, Ashley Winnington, hmm. Your sister was found murdered 3 days ago. Hmm, bummer.”

John groaned audibly and Sally scoffed, while Ashley stammered and was almost dumbstruck. “Y-yes, she’s gone. I… I’m sorry, I’m still in disbelief. I just saw her, and suddenly, she’s gone. I was devastated.”

“Right. I notice you don’t have very many pictures of her. None, actually, from what I’ve seen.” Sherlock locked his eyes on her; she blinked.

“Well, of course. I couldn’t stand seeing her face everywhere in this place. I’d drive myself mad. Just the thought of her lying dead somewhere… I’m sorry, I can’t.” She covered her mouth and began to make small sobs, while Sherlock remained stone-faced.

“Need a minute?” Sherlock asked dryly and John cleared his throat.

“Sherlock,” John said harshly. “Manners.”

“I… apologize,” he said. “The night before Kristina was found dead, where were you?”

“I was here, at home, by myself. Kristina wanted to go out on a date with a less than admirable man.”

“Mr. Ross?” John asked.

“Well, yes. How did you know that? Is he a suspect?” She asked.

“What time did you get in?” Sherlock asked, not answering her question.

“Around 6:30. I had to make a delivery. Kristina left about an hour and a half later.”

“What did you deliver?” Sherlock’s eyes were fixed on hers, deadlocked in an intense stare with her.

“A package,” Ashley said back. “I can’t really tell you what it is.”

“A piece of lingerie, most likely, homemade. Your fingers are calloused from years of sewing. Do you run your own business?”

“I guess you could say that. I-”

“You must be a very neat worker, since you haven’t stained your carpet with fabric dye, although the smell is very pungent, and hard to get rid of. Nice try with trying to conceal it with the candles, but-” he inhaled sharply as he sniffed the air, “it’s not something one can easily get rid of, is it now?”

Sally stood to her feet and groaned with exasperation. “Okay, Freak, is this going anywhere?” she asked, her irritation evident.

“Shut your mouth, Donovan, I’m trying to interrogate this woman. Ashley, if I may ask, where were you in the three days since Kristina’s murder? Hurry up, now.”

“I’ve been here, at home, grieving my sister’s loss! Where else would I have gone?”

“I don’t know, why don’t you tell me?”

“Sherlock!” John yelled, his voice higher and more booming than he intended. “Please.”

Sherlock frowned. After shooting a glare at Donovan, who gladly returned the sentiment, his eyes met John, who was emitting an emotion that he hadn’t seen on him since their encounter with Henry Knight. However, Sherlock wouldn’t budge on this, not this time. John would not cause his resolve to crumble, his concentration to break, his pace to be slowed.

“Can you please show me Kristina’s room?” Sherlock asked, his voice slightly softer than before. He was manipulating again, seeming more docile and friendly in order to get what he wanted. He was quite good at it, well, with strangers, at least. ”I might something helpful there.”

Donovan and John followed them through the house. Kristina’s room was small, plain, and almost homely. She had a computer in the corner on a desk, and one single wooden dresser near it. Sherlock pulled the computer chair from underneath of the desk and crouched under, glancing at the space underneath of it. While on the ground, he crawled to the bed and scanned the floor under it. Dissatisfied, he leapt to his feet and opened the closet and took a look inside.

“Are these all of Kristina’s things? Everything in the room belongs to her?” Sherlock asked impatiently.

“Yes, everything is hers. Nothing’s terribly out of place.” Ashley stepped back as Sherlock walked past her and into the hallway towards another door. John looked inside once more before following everyone.

“This room is yours, yes?” he inquired, opening the door before he got an answer.

“Uh, yes, but please wait a second-” she was interrupted by Sherlock barging through, repeating the same process from Kristina’s room. He was on his hands and knees, sniffing and snooping for clues, when she spoke again. “Listen, if you find the killer-”

“When,” Sherlock corrected. He got up and moved to the closet, where he chuckled to himself.

“Eh, when, I just want to thank you in advance for everything,” she said, grinning.

“Don’t thank me yet, you’re still a prime suspect,” he said coldly.

“Excuse me?” She moved out of the way as Sherlock walked past her to the living room and her houseguests trailed behind. “What do you mean, prime suspect?”

“We best be on our way, but thank you, Ms. Winnington, you have been very helpful. Good day,” he said as he opened the door and went outside. John and Donovan soon came afterwards, and were wearing expressions of frustration and displeasure.

“What the hell was that,” Sally asked, absolutely fuming. “What is it with you and making all of our witnesses hate us?” 

“She’s more than a witness, you dolt, she’s a suspect! She’s a clothes designer, obviously experienced in sewing. Kristina’s mouth was sewn shut. She had absolutely no photographs of her own sister in her flat only days after her death. Her house was only cleaned this morning, after she got back from wherever she may have been. Not only is she a prime suspect, she’s directly involved! I had hoped you clods at the Yard would have interviewed her sooner, at least under your direction-”

“We still had to wait for the okay from Lestrade, Freak. It’s standard protocol.” 

“Sally, Sherlock, enough!” John bellowed, stirring the detectives and making them turn towards him swiftly. His face was red, absolutely scarlet, and his fists were clenched together with the indignant fury of a man who’d had enough. “The two of you are being so bloody childish right now, I can’t take it. There’s a time and place, but not here or now. Please.”

“Tell that to him,” Donovan, gesturing with her chin.

“Please, control yourself,” Sherlock replied.

“Stop, that is enough! I mean it!” John shouted.

Sherlock growled. “Why didn’t you tell me you were with Mycroft yesterday?” 

“What?” John asked, flummoxed. “How is that even related?”

“I just figured we were going to be angry at each other for inane reasons, so I figured I would give it a try for once. What did you two talk about?”

“Sherlock, not now.” John was serious as the plague, and Sherlock was not faltering from his position. “When we get home, please.”

Sally uncrossed her arms after watching the events unfold and walked to the car, which was parked only a few feet away. “While you two duke it out, I’ll be waiting,” she said as she opened the door and sat inside.

John’s eyes were black as coal on Sherlock’s face, and Sherlock’s steel gaze on matched John’s. “What did. The two of you. Talk about?”

“Mycroft offered us money again. But it wasn’t for spying. He asked for us to flee the country frm Moran. I told him no, but-”

“Why?” Sherlock inquired.

“W-why? I don’t know, because I don’t want for us to run all around the world just to get away from one little person, because I don’t want to leave 221B, because we have a life here, because I don’t want Mycroft controlling everything we do, that’s why!” John was practically breathless, the fact that he actually had to explain this left him exhausted.

“So you don’t want Mycroft making my decisions for me, and yet you’re perfectly alright with doing it yourself?” Sherlock almost breathed that last part, and John shuddered.

“Sherlock, that’s not the same thing-“

”I don’t see how it’s not. You didn’t even tell me, and yet you were ready to speak for me. John, I would have gone literally anywhere with you. To the ends of the bloody earth.”

“Why go to the ends of the earth for one insignificant man?!”

“That insignificant man almost took the lives of two people I actually give a damn about! He’s dangerous, John, and if I can’t get rid of him then I’ll simply escape him for as long as I can!”

John’s expression cracked. Stunned, silent, awestruck. Every unbelievable emotion he could feel was in his face, at that moment. “I… I can’t believe you would even say such a thing. For you to run away from everything is… unfathomable. What’s happened to you?”

Sherlock’s jaw went slack. “I… I don’t know. I’m-”

“No, don’t tell me,” John replied as he moved to the car. “I’m not sure if I want to know.” He opened the door and sat in the rear seat. With gritted teeth, Sherlock followed at sat in the front passenger seat. Donovan pulled out of the lot and drove off. The car ride was absolutely silent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to add that bit about Donovan because I feel like everyone shits on her as a character. That's not really fair to me, so I wanted to add that little tidbit about her.


	12. Don't Hate Me (Update)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hahha

I regert to inform you that I probably will not be ever finishing this fic. Like, ever. I’m not proud of this piece of writing and I have other things I wanna work on. Plus this fic is hella lame. If you wish to finish it and add your own chapters then that’s fucking rad as shit!!! You have my permission to do so. And who knows, maybe I’ll come back to this. But it’s been over a year so it’s not likely??? Sorry yall I really am. I know there were people who really liked this and theyre probably disappointed but I honestly don’t give a shit about this anymore ahha. I hope you understand. Thank you for reading as far as you have!!!!! I really appreciate it. But I've moved on to other things. Anyway, laters


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